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Heavy damp blue smoke loses its way among bending reed and rill, fromheaps of turved hassocks, where they’ve readied land for ridging to curb floodand purify the air, he says, though come fall of leaf it will be fen again. For now,
In 1949, when I was ten,A year after the airlift for beleaguered BerlinHad foiled Stalin’s attempt to starve it
the year they diedthey died together Francesand Florence though apart by one floor and three weeks
In a crumpled shirt (so casual for a god)Bow tucked loosely under an arm still jittery from battle
Couldn’t fathom more than arranging verdant data leftby predecessors so, like wind
The old roads are not of the body.The fish swarm the surface.Plants find their own suns.
For almost forty years I have been alive, and the magnitude of my unknown grows before me, its shape the shadow