“I thought our living and dying would be one.”
– Agnes’ letter to Clare of Assisi

far beyond a place begun, terraced though the dream await,
price too high the center spun, each depart another way

one to depth, another birthing, distance holding still to pray;
signal town no fire sending, hand and season slipt away.

here the loft from which we scattered, balcony above the play,
here the script divined and atlas, holding forth to keep at bay.

Who the god that keeps you yours, then, and mine own another day?
what the axis still its turning, never yet our peace to say.


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