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I cannot tell you! nothing can tell you!
the moon who sleeps with thrushes in the lemontree
has ventured her mouth and now she cannot tell you
the leaves surrendered quietly over the grass
the magpies squabble and have no news as usual

but I so much want to say! to volley the notes
that globe and ripen in this turbulent light
through the silver vacuum of your ear —
to tighten your sweet surfaces exquisitely
so you may purely resonate, sweet gong,

a wave through glittering waves, a frond uncoiling
ceaselessly, a violet blade cutting together
moon and leaf and day — no!
I cannot say! my mouth is still
fast asleep among the amorous lemons!

      — Alison Croggon