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TRANSCENDENTAL FUGUE (FOR WILLIAM R. FULLER), by                    
First Line: This love has never been a prairie fire
Last Line: Such is the chronicle of our exodus.


This love has never been a prairie fire,
Instead a moonstone dropped into a pool.
How wan, how fluent are its glimmers, choir
Of pellucid hopes that feel encroaching cool
Of death without complaint. Symphonic pain
Is not their medium. If they could speak
Or sing, it would be more like pines in rain
And wind. Though love appears as listless, weak
It has the strength of silence which outlasts
The cold gray life of steel. More like a nun
It rests within a simple cell and fasts,
Denies itself the warmth of passions' sun.
No vagrant thing, this love may be reviewed
Which would prove disappointment to the prude.

The waves of phosphorescent waters break
In jade green fires and foam along the shores
As we commune, though wordless. We awake
To new rapports and find therein vast stores
That dim accounts of legendary wealth.
This goodness cools like tropical sereins
And, like them, falls without the warning stealth
Of clouds announcing that their thirsting pains
Will soon be quenched. We hold within our hands
The greatest glory that a man may own
And both are wise without great wisdom. Bands
Of dull restraint are broken. We lie prone.
We left the world, attained that meant for us --
Such is the chronicle of our exodus.





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