The Manchester Review
Averill Curdy
Four Poems
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Though others may serve me elsewhere,
For this time I must speak only to you
Who would not confess yourself ignorant!

My baroque hair had kindled the night
I ran through the door of the storm,
Thunder buttressing and vaulting the air

Over porches and gables, sashes and sills
And pediments of rain, which built a city
In the unfinished sleep of a blind girl. I, too,

Was tired. Tired of wandering around
This world like an eight-sided church—
With so many corners to stumble against!—

Vagrant at the crossroads looking for you,
My darling and dahlia exegete, if you could
Take this smoulder on my horizon of vision,

Receive these words and translate them
Liberally. That you’ll find this in your hands
Afterwards I might have helped but did not

I would have wished to write a poem
That listens but my boat left on the tide—