Tuesday, June 12, 2012

Great Regulars: But, when the blindfold slips,

we struggle to understand both our own impulsiveness--"those pupils . . . blindly scanning my face"--and each other, and discover that it takes more than the touch of lips on "pulsing lids" to catch the drift of a lover's dream. Perhaps the poem's own "small perfections" inveigle us more lastingly than love's unseeing eye.

[by Peter Dale]


from The Times Literary Supplement: Poem of the Week: Vigil


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