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by Gerald T. Gordon

Whatever keeps
a heart this still
suffers itself

Whatever casts
clouds before the eye
sees itself blind

Whatever stoops
to low things
is brought near itself

Whatever inspires
angels’ breath
is substantially wind

Whatever is
the Form of form is not it-
self known

Whatever moves
these words
to work
sings itself to sleep.


Gerald T. Gordon has published about 20 poems as well as articles on Carlos Williams, Hemingway, and Waugh. (Fall 1974)

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