Beseiged: A Poem

Such sweet succulence stolen
in the night when I did not lie sleeping,
when I assumed the sound of ruin
was in my head, something I had said,
regretted saying, and not the doe and her fawn
in the garden of fritillary. They had been so spooned
over with near fruit, my spotted lilies.
They had been so verging close to giving me
morning more still and lovely than any
night. How fleeting, how wretched,
the possibility of meaning.

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