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Graven beloved He forgot her lies and two webbed feet. Worshipped her at a makeshift altar against the advice of priests who counseled him in vain, "She's now impossible to reach. Give up the search." They spread the story of his futile quest as the myth of the man who loved a woman with two webbed feet. How he had returned no less cured of grief but filled with stories of another world that is also here where people suffer beyond belief. That needs a name for the afterlife. I cannot grieve I cannot grieve the long redundant end of leaves again. They are gluttons for eulogy, spectral clowns, autumnal freaks. A thing must have a face to die, something that will not revive in a thaw or marry soil, something with style and raging heart, something with desire and spiritual force, something that grows from nothing at first and becomes unique, something that can't return, therefore, to the garden of vanity, something you remember without the reminder of other things that look the same and blow in the wind and fall to the ground without a name. What the river said I walked beside the Great River watching it flow in the darkness like a syllable that needs a grievous heart to be heard. I stopped to listen and heard it whisper every name as it slipped in silence past the fields in which a herd of Holsteins grazed. I saw it for the divide it was, both here and not here, impossibly there, there, with a current that can’t be crossed without forgetting everything you’ve ever known. |
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