Article Title

A Poem

Document Type



So fast, so fine It must be made of butterflies, Not they, themselves, but the thing they do: A sleight, a silence, susurration: Nothing, in a word, but something in that naughtSomething there that tries to say itself. (Ah, to sing, and so be hidden in the song; The song comes to our ears, but says it not.) And sometimes, I too, try to say it, (To try is to despair). Whatever I may do To catch it, name it, know it, I miss it As I christen it. It does not stop for me...

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