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FROM THE LAKESHORE, or A Few Cuttings Randomly Weeded Out From an Unpublished Typescript of YoreScrap the Fourth
A fleeting time for lovers—a fleeting chance
of love—for a fleeting time, delight—Love—
Here, hanging over an horror and beyond—
A farewell—a life as unknown as ever—
Hands whirling in the air—Against this bewitching delight
a new life shattered itself—We drank, we talked—
in this unbearable horror—a last sickle of silver moon—
So that a man and a woman could meet each other—
Splashing water—waiting bodies—
All that happened—with mine own eyes—was foretold—
A lake, a sky—bleak stillness and
melting, blending, merging—a gift—
A gift to everyone–a gift that did join us, and
did keep a circle of words in spite of every barrier.
of love—for a fleeting time, delight—Love—
Here, hanging over an horror and beyond—
A farewell—a life as unknown as ever—
Hands whirling in the air—Against this bewitching delight
a new life shattered itself—We drank, we talked—
in this unbearable horror—a last sickle of silver moon—
So that a man and a woman could meet each other—
Splashing water—waiting bodies—
I think—
Bodies, and white blue tables—white kissing—All that happened—with mine own eyes—was foretold—
A lake, a sky—bleak stillness and
melting, blending, merging—a gift—
A gift to everyone–a gift that did join us, and
did keep a circle of words in spite of every barrier.
Illusion, Illusion—Reality—
Rough Reality—