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Sawnie Morris Sawnie Morris


Recalling The bed That Was A Grave

               she kept falling
into — attempting to rise — while
          the unseen dropped roses
From over the rim, the roses kept
     hitting—
                     that is landing — no, they were
Hitting her
                                         face.

As the snow,
                    the white of an early spring sky,
Light flakes falling onto her eyelids
                              that could not stay open
That tried and tried
                                             but could not —
Following, now, the river — it was
                                                  her fate —
                    as in
                              an obligation

          willfully chosen — to enter,

Or shall we say,
                    it entered her as the music
turns into singing
                         under the impulse
to make notes.