Enter Home Planet News Poetry of Issue #4                        Page 5
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THE UNICORN SPEAKS

Though I have tried,
No bride comes out to play
In my tapestry.
The horn, grown brittle,
Might crumble to powder
At the first hit.
Still I should like
To try that exercise.
Tones the muscles, they say.
Makes the coat glisten.
A certain fire floods the eye.

I have a dim memory
Of such matters.
Golden hair and breasts and all,
But nothing specific.
That was before they spun my flesh
To fabric, wove this fence.

She looked a bit, I think,
Like that young nun yonder
Frozen these several hours before me,
Lips parched, telling beads.
(Blonde hair beneath her habit,
I perceive; quivering flanks,
Breasts like the fruit
That tempted Adam
From his greenness.)
Shadows encroach; she recedes
As the light does.
When she goes
Her space grows
Empty as death,
Nerveless as thread.


        Jim Story