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The Impossible Machine
A CUBIC WOOD, a longer poem
                                               page 2

Suffice a cubic wood
the shallow ambers
lightly melding
as though a garden door

Concealed obsconding legs
a thief of care
gone beyond the transfixed men
their brows bowed in sand

The leaves, like grape leaves,
caught in a youthful hand

Suffice a cubic wood
the trees aligned to some implicit grid
the groves of mellow spiked with some
cruel thorns
chestnuts and acorns fallen dark
from the low canopy

trails of would-be thoughts
trailing off
making imprecise paths
spontaneous leaps

over clusters of misbegotten weeds

Suffice a cubic wood
an eye upon an eye
an hour upon an hour
light too sweet to drink

bliss suspended
in a picked field
the mind incredulous
with the wrong enough

an absolution, empty of rhyme empty of
certain fear



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by Eucaleh Terrapin