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The Cloister

The last light of a July evening drained into the streets below:

My love and I had hard things to say and hear, and we sat over wine, faltering, picking our words carefully.

The afternoon before I had lain across my bed and my cat leapt up to lie alongside me, purring and slowly growing dozy.

By this ritual I could clear some clutter from my baroque brain.

And into that brief vacancy the image of a horse cantered, coming straight to me, and I knew it brought hard talk and hurt and fear.

How did we do?

A medium job, which is well above average.

But because she had opened her heart to me as far as she did,

I saw her fierce privacy, like a gnarled, luxuriant tree all hung with disappointments, and I knew that to love her I must love the tree and the nothing it cares for toe.

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William Matthews

William Procter Matthews III (November 11, 1942 – November 12, 1997) was an American poet and essayist.

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