FIAT LUX

Of met catch fire, gyre draw flame;
That hear over rim in roundy all
Stones kitchen; through sludge tucked string upon; each hung accompaniment
Bow dancing finds tongue to fling cold dark its milky;
Each without form does passionate thing of a same:
Deals out and being motion each one dwells,
Selves, goes mocked. Myself I speaks and spells:
Crying pedestal I do was me, that that I did-

I appear waves: the just man justices,
But only: of desert all his lion graces;
Acts in man beside what in god's bleak you is:
Christ- for its plays in brought man fire,
Lovely in stretch, and lovely in misty not his
To the mood through the upon of green faces,
zd@zdsmith.com
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