E L I Z A B E T H    R O B I N S O N
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SEVEN POEMS

 

 

W

 

You take and then

you extrapolate on the taking

so each take

is at a remove from the last

and the payment we

draw from these confiscations

has no image.

She was not a woman.

There is no red, no white.

Mulct

only. Each diminishment

beatifies the taker

whose interior, like an organ,

swells,

not red, but perhaps

fairer, the generosity

you would claim

for yourself. You strew

the edge farther than

the swindle. You yourself

had no face, but you took

to smiling.

 

 

 

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