Spectra

Had walked one night apart,
When his beard was not yet grown--and, afraid,

She had seen his young words dart.

Between a mother and a son,

The guillotine . . .
It falls, it falls, and one by one,

Unseeing and unseen,
They face the great sharp shining ton

That time has eaten green.

Between the shoulder and the head

The guillotine must play
And cleave with clash unmerited

The generating day . . .
Till the separated parts, not dead,

Rise and walk away.

ANNE KNISH
_Opus 134_