Nov 132013
Arms-at-hips, I stand upon this cresive hill
Surveying June as a nameless river spills

And the empty field rolls on, intensely bright,
Speckled by no spitter-spat of night.

In this brightest space of land, in this
Empty field grown emptier with light,

Vile tidings shiver in the shadows of the grass,
Grass green as glass, as translucent--

At the heart of each blade, at heart,
A shadow, thin as an eyelash, starts,

Starts and grows long as the light that makes it,
A doubling of light by light's black absence.

The field is full of shadings half-perceived,
Small caresses of a brush loaded with ebon,

Defining, crying out, night, night,
As the sun bristles past the cresive hill.

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