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I stare till my
words cross at
the slashing divide
between all I have
renounced and the higher
ground that waits, brightly
winks and beckons at
the other side of loving
what I’ve left behind

to denounce is
a half step, single foot
hovering, fig leaf that
covers arrhythmical
truths pushed as
literal by dealers
whose fault lines
are all I can see

to debunk locks
my Spirit, keeps
hostage alive like
pearls in a safe, like
butterflies pinned to
a board in an archive
defunded and closed
to the public for private
and lecherous eyes
and no other

what good my
partial nay? what
service to beauty
can I render when
instead of bedecking
unclothed what is me
with fumbling yet original
thought, I drag like an ox
a strongbox of lead that
holds the debunked, the
discredited pounding inside
with a heart fully loaded
and holstered and eager
to fire when the outermost
shows to my stuttering
visage all that’s

Do I care what
you’ve said, what
you’ve bled, what
you’ve read? Not
so much. Can I
stop when the flare
in my heart starts
to rise, and I fancy
a cause and the
fig leaf of shame
starts to flap and
the thought of my
loins being judged
in a public melee
sets a flame to
my tongue and I
ruin the game we
were playing
so well?


I look across
the great divide
with softer eyes
and start to lower
the foot now fatigued
to believe that I’m
seeing the only way
over to promising
land is to cast
every word to
the wind
except one



© Elaine Stirling, 2013
–Image of Elora Gorge from