The Impossible Machine
LE TURETTA
She budged to make
the pillows dellecrise
And storms of words
suspelled, sustained
Such azure delves
As hold the warmest tenderness

And I, beside myself
with chamber rooms
And luted music
susperating halls
Entuned the bells of canterknells,
Swift things that bring the blinds
to close

As moments worry
turnled screens
Or song-lips turn
sweet-bitter dark
Words are alone their
amelee
She draws me in
away from stars
and winging birds
BACK TO POETRY MAIN
by Nathan Coppedge
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