Tall heads of the daisies in the evening light
grown spindly in the rain (July's procession).
A dragonfly plays acrobat on the clothesline.
Summer ascends its oscillating height.

The map was not abstract, a planetary plan.
It was bare footprints, someone who loved
before we knew. Considerate fingers carved
her firm reply (imperturbable caravan

for craven days). She was prepared for us
somehow, as words before the lips are formed,
or leaves before the tree. There are women
determined to accompany each limping Lazarus

until he flowers from the grave (almond,
magnanimous). And there is no forsaking her.
The rustic bond is adamant, an earthbound
anchor; so the broken wheel comes round.

You waited, Ponderous, for rain to end.
Weary with weariness, with a decade's
knowingness. In the forlorn backyard,
the jungle gym (its latticework of iron).

The premonitions of precocious kings
are humored, patiently, by humid soil.
An Oxford Book of Oxford, reconciled
with Journey Down the River Oxus. Wings'

imps, prehensile, Archimedean... wrought
by your unslaked heart, and mine. We go
into this game of Go before we know
what passionate bough prefigures every flight.

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