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 Told by Philip Levine
The air lay soffly on the green fur
of the almond, it was April and I said, I begin again but my hands burned in the damp earth the light ran between my fingers a black light like no other this was not home, the linnet settling on the oleander the green pod swelling the leaf slowly untwisting the slashed egg fallen from the nest the tongue of grass tasting I was being told by a pulse slowing in the eyes the dove mourning in shadow a nerve waking in the groin the distant hills turning their white heads away told by the clouds assembling in the trees, told by the blooming of a black mouth beneath the rose the worm sobbing, the dust settling on my eyelid, told by salt, by water, told and told. |
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