Meadow of matchsticks, <br />soon to be rekindled <br />by Spring the incendiary. <br /> <br />The exact flame of your blossoms <br />will ignite the passions <br />happily sapped by time-- <br /> <br />Dripdrop their excess went <br />and now miners' hats <br />light up like love before <br /> <br />your vein, the frame of which <br />is there to depict the drift, <br />the waste when I painted <br /> <br />all the review copies <br />they sent me. But those books <br />open to polar pages where you <br /> <br />and I weigh the ends of this <br />teeter totem down, you <br />at the head and nadir me; <br /> <br />where postmortem is <br />the aura of self-portrait, <br />its other half regained at last.<br /><br />Bill Knott<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/picture/
