Sophia Nichols,

the wind hits and returns     it is easy to personify a new place and language,     but the new body stings these men with green eyelids, drawing their worth, it was rumoured, from Egypt, knew the work is part of it     a power arrived at the same thirst he borrowed a head for a day but which head     the phrases tremble in the other mouth    it is true and false     the veil of her face, an old porcelain, not for the hand to comfort     she moved beyond the sop one gave for affection    ‘My success has been to keep duty and love alive’    she said her hand waved with the power of disease      Sophia Nichols of the orchards, the deserts, the flooded ponds and games wherein the moon sought our feet died with a mouth full of tumour      it is true and false   the moon flowers  ( that is Blake talking ) tonight it is the half blossom and the stars too above this mud are from the other mouth     this city untouched     the streets, Hotel Lyric have a foreignness, a place outside a window     a sound of bees pulling the lilac     above cement this wonder ( the other mouth ) that crickets were men once who so loved the muses they forgot to eat     now fed on thistles, the language must sting    the flesh turn to a dew ( the other mouth ) the loss,    some glistening blood on the leaves of the mirror plant    Sophia Nichols of the story, the goldenrod, of the snake that entered the cage and ate the captured sparrows, the telegraph keys, pale yellow paper,     of the Odyssey and the homing stories of the soul,     the sea imaginary, light and foaming green on the rocks  dark further out as the eye of the cat if she would be free from words, she would free me   even in the night there are birds summoned by words