Poems October 2009
Small things
The thorn in Rilke’s finger,
The boil on Scriabin’s lip,
Were enough to wrest the singer
From his musicianship.
Airiest Isadora
Gave up her dancing breath
When motoring she wore a
Red scarf that caught on death.
Small things speed our departure:
A scarf, a boil, a thorn;
But were they any larger,
The things by which we are born?
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This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 28 Number 2, on page 29
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