All this time the world
has escaped belonging.
I say to the green
scent of wind : what's belonging?
These crops still rising
obscure the place beneath:
perhaps a woman is there.
Often I ask what mercies
such a form can fetch.
She is from the river beneath the river.
There, abound things swimming
and too much bearing of their weight.
I lie there with her in the stream,
marveling, though not wanting
to see the course reeds stiffening
in her hair,
or her eyes with the dusk of our cities
falling down into a sleep of moss.
Mostly I look in:
I watch her speaking with blood
to the animals, to the ripening inside.
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