(For black Eunice)
Little by little, lifting over the edge
Of the spring-fed valley, approaching
Between the sky and the outer edge of the world,
I knew something was passing, casual
And tremendous both.
As if on move a field of purple sedge
In deciduous passes,
Possessed of bold dimensions not her own,
But heired of flatter landscapes
And lack-lustres,
Passing the white boys by calmly
In their sweet grot, where they were not emphatically concealed,
There was nothing loath in her,
Nothing begot to thrust her strong legs
Into the fern leaf and fly her thin arms
In interference.
Wearing the beautiful sky indifferently
About the sharp dye of her shoulders,
Observing the south, the east,
The north, the west, a beautiful blue target
For her sullen soul’s black aptitude,
In the valley circumscribed
By the precocity of the world and the lean
Fury of her own circularities,
She lifted little by little into the hollow’s head
Where the pool lay svelte in the bright morning,
Wherein her going had been and was Complained.
In the lush valley obstreperous white cheeks
Flashed, and the dark male heads
Shifted pivotally to and from the hollow’s head
With alluding vision. Blandly, she knew
The whiter seed of bitches linked her with the bush.
Breaking her beautiful size into
The fringe of the pool, she spilled briefly
The green suit from her dun
And likely geography and dressed a rock.
The calm domino of her was perpetually increased.
Under her hands the slim belly of her
Was its own reward.
Compelled delicately into the pool,
She watched her dark calves draw
In stormy equivocation a brilliant sediment.
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