Edna St. Vincent Millay

I find a memory that the theater burned
with all my lips have kissed
a savage beauty, larger than life

Launching ships to sail on seas of ether drenched strawberries
worn and mumbling along the halls of shuddering poets in mourning

my tongue is not made of bone,
my tongue is not made of air
my tongue is not silent
it holds the salt of the earth in the hands of a multitude

It was made to clean waits to be washed by your mercy
In launching the edges of an east coast
with hunger as its own mistress
I forget the chapters that were knotted by complexity

There remains a gleaning
around the edges of galaxy from my future pages to roam
glancing to grace and pushing past stars far from
the basket of phrases sought by a general intellect
growing and accumulated in a city
that swells with darkness and shadows
so far is the ocean
so far is the light of unwavering solitude

stories of giving and foam
run rolling across a surf that changed to a stormy sea
and in that storm I will remain
wiping its breath from my eyes