The Alan Sondheim Mail Archive

July 24, 2017

for Dorothy Wordsworth

The ruin lay before us, dark and grey;
Became a Ruin near the end of day.
Before us some dark ruin slowly spread
Into the name of Ruin, ere we fled.
Look yonder, a ruin we espied
Turned into Ruin, we read, we sought, we cried.
Our Ruin gave us language and a name,
Descended into ruin, improper, shade, and same.
Paeans of the Ruin called and bade,
less than the ruin, already lost, unmade

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