Ur Auguries of Innocence, To his daughter, Patti Smith
What is the heart but a small hand,
of agonies? What is the immobile
stag, but a blessing disguised
within the pages of a book?
Little one, set down your hymnal,
rest it upon your knee. Tears
may stain the fragile leaf,
let them fall, let them fall.
Your father has rushed forth in a column mist. Now you seek
him in columns of words, water
and stone. He is here little heart.
The stag fell under the stroke
and into the blackness
so bright as to fold
light. Here. Pressed between
hymn and hymn a perfect thorn,
the spear of your father´s love.
The hart faltered and fell.
The red-skinned hart.
He is the gust that lifts the bit of sail
to press your cheek, wipe the tears.
A bit of sail without moral, turning
like an apron upon a cloud.
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