Sunday, July 7, 2013

Jane Miller

Meadow with Standing Crows

After living in the sprouting desert there is nothing

like the thought of sweet rain falling into a salty bay.

Rather than bear the farthest touch,

rather than be rain, having been

neither of this world nor mad as it turns

out, on and off during a year

I saw someone had bitten your neck near the baby

hair, and also your shoulder. Why does it show,

is it of the heart, is it mindless, jealousy,

where nothing moves in a field in a world, and it is morning?

Even though you never came after me


Summer, nor called,

not once when I said not to, like finally

stepping over water after contemplation of it

as sand, two crows in the moans of the salt

water in my head answer for whom are we mysterious

and suffering, for loveliness.

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