Verse
Ponsot, Marie
Marie Ponsot Proserpine, Packing f have two lives, that change like dreams. One dream, always the same, connects the two, ft always almost seems to come or be able to come true. In this dream...
...In this dream I am my mother — her underwater mirror, or, she my above-ground tree with me her underground and stemming source, her feeder-tooted downtree...
...In case my crown surge (if — freezing & melting freezing again — earth heaves, I must not heave) I sing myself back down with words about our systemic sameness, all channels open to each other's benefit...
...it's stuck in autumn, impacted, like the bulb narcissus, like daffodil & hyacinth in bulb, or tulips, daughtering...
...16 January 1987: 13...
...As it is, the dream can't blossom...
...While the spidered roots of her wheat ignore my dream, it sleeps replete, concealing my retreat from her short defeat...
...This is a dream that wants to come true because of what would have been if each or either of us, the one facing the other, had ever stood still...
Vol. 114 • January 1987 • No. 1
