Winter 1944 • Vol. VI No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1944 |

January

The shelled flesh will not hold nor the locked mind heal its wind of wounds; only the stone castle of bone to signal where the blood has flown (as winds feel out the skeleton of hounds). Here in the laced and leaning land shines, in a ball of ice, his star-leaved hand; his body, the death-eaten island. Beneath the linens of blood and winter what steel shocks the shell of the water? (His shoulders lodged in the young hills of the snow.) The ants sing in the swollen meadow, the core of the hill is locked in the marrow. The printed butterflies blow. In this violet-veined land who, taking his hand in his hand, calling across the woven fields of summer hears the dead echo his find; the birds turn, and, planted in the wind, stare at the new-comer?

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Two Poems

By Robert Horan

The shelled flesh will not hold nor the locked mind heal its wind of wounds; only the stone castle of bone to signal where the blood has flown (as winds […]

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