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an excerpt from At Chartres

 At Chartres the saints and apostles walk not among But just
above us. We might touch a hem, so close, Soft rippled black with the
air of Paris. Ash has clung And settled on a smooth brow, straight nose,
Lips so curved and full we know Nothing will erode or decompose Their
cool compassion, the perfect ratio. Only a glance strikes out of stone
As we pass under flights of angels that flank the arch. Stranger and
stranger, nine ranks toward the throne, They carry the nebulous bundles
we could wish To bless, our souls bare before skin, hair, nail or bone.
    Walking away we're awkward, made of mud,
   As if we were rock and they robed and winged in blood. 
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Title Annotation:IN MEMORIAM
Author:Rabb, Margaret
Publication:The Carolina Quarterly
Article Type:Excerpt
Geographic Code:4EUFR
Date:Jun 22, 2010
Previous Article:Balancing act.
Next Article:Noli Me Tangere.

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