obsession & invocation (after elizabeth barrett browning)

where are the songs the muse so sweetly sang
to shakespeare, sullen, through his darkened hands
onto the page of lives he never had? the years before us
on the spinning earth hold their abundance
through that which they don’t say (they know our names)
their shadows flung across our path, their wind
that blows the form of death, drinks from our lips
as in their gracious hands appears a gift—
but we don’t know our faces through the mist.

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