Maxwell Bodenheim

1892 - 1954 / Mississippi / United States

Mark Of Your Voice

Mark of your voice, a dawn
Dropping little gestures upon my forehead,
While slumber-edged thoughts rise in my head
And wave back greetings droll and confused.
Pain has jested with the whirling night
And both vanish like an untold prayer,
So, make of your voice, a dawn
Dropping little gestures upon my forehead.
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