Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Emily Anglin

A poem by Emily Anglin.


When you have swaddled your head in vermillion
linen to block a glint that widens like a coo
into a dim room striped with amber light;
when you have lain below a sink, hooded by an apron of
mauve lace, and peeped through eyelets at high panes
dappled with yellow and lime;
when you have sat on a bathing house step in the late-winter sun
and bundled your brow in a rough wool scarf
steeped to a sea green as the wind rushes;
when you have leaned against the bleached stone lion that guards
the coast, and wound yourself in sacking, 
binding your own wrappings
with twine,
as the gusts lift past a scrubbed seawall—then,
and laid out on the cool salt shore,
flat under bright sun you can slowly tune
a white light for shut lids to become.

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