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No Clock in the Forest.

--As You Like It

 Come put a face to the name, Terror. And if there's any
grace left, it's terra.
 Know you through the orange berries of creeping bittersweet. Or twining
woods end in wild grape, poison ivy, and woodbine, birch saplings taut
as bows, recurved by vine.
Grace, Terror, time to split the difference, change verb tense, shift
the seed, revel in fence.
Best-case scenario, I'm first to pass, urn spilling over peonies,
foxgloves, crabgrass.
Bring morning glory mourning's story, Jack's pulpit cups,
stamen's golden fury,
your aphids, vespids, narrative retreads. Come, Terror, with overwatered
scattering dropped petals. Those fat grubs, loaded spores. Panicked
rose, potted beetles, eroded
root tags and graceless bees. Your face the same old clock, obscured by
sun, concealed by rain. 
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Author:Hennessy, John (American poet)
Publication:Southwest Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jan 1, 2016
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