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Poetry

Instead

this hour it's grassy, leafed, fat with cold
golden light, nothing humid

 

the rye asway and lake waves going after their own
green joy --

 

or is it pure indifference?
I'm in love with whatever it is

 

now it all goes blue from the cloud passing swiftly

 

now lustre climbs the poplar and jackpine

 

birch like exclamations
in the green, white as stripped bone, white as lightning

 

as the child's third tooth

 

dragonflies issue from grey casements, then sit atop them,
wings hardening

 

to lift into clean impossible air

 

this day this love is wind and frenzy -- its leaves flaunting pale
undersides, it's moss

 

that thatches the phoebe's nest in the beam
above the new door --

 

no, not indifference

 

but one beautiful fact, then another

 

the child's hands feathering the air, cloud and foam
this green day, and white and gold and unlocked

 

each of us somehow better than before