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Articles by Paula Bohince
Apr 17, 2007
The sea tunnels forward as a hymn
with nothing in it
word lifted and lowered over eleven notes
as though the sound
were a wooden boat upon a real sea,
true boat tossed mightily
until it slips into utter senselessness,
becomes lulled into pure vowel,
timbre of the singers gone sugary and soft,
rosy as the daily wash
of pale pinks and mauves upon the shore:
reflected colors of the sailors’ sky,
chorus breaking upon the watery edge,
sailors singing of the world.
Climbing the pasture, I lowered my head
Jul 11, 2006
saw the weave of the crocus
blowing backwards, and in this motion
recognized my life,
the full sadness of existence,
but wanted it still:
the earth and its sugars, these days
like a bridge I could cross.
Mar 07, 2006
Now there is only the heart—
oiled and rosy
as a hoof—and within its wooded walls
lives an evergreen:
on each bough, the jeweled gestures
of birds in winter.
There is the pain of isolation,
thus any snowfall becomes solace
layering each needle, each
feather so slowly
that both are gradually disfigured, made
similar, then hidden entirely.
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