No wonder there are those lights of suspicion moving
endlessly over memory and its faces
over the way of memory itself the way
of remembering which is the way of forgetting
the way of horizons the way beyond reach the way
of another which appears at times to be the only way
when not one thing one moment with its heavenly
bodies flying through unrepeated places not one
sound or shining is what it was the one time before
it was remembered when I was in the midst of it
looking out thinking about something far from there
bodies and death and taxes and what I did not want
and have forgotten while Lande was plowing the length
of the field under the walnut trees in September
for the last time going on talking to the cows
tapping lightly on their yoke with the slender stick
that he had cut in the hazel grove one year when he
was still young and the cows followed him out of the field
and the shadows filled it and the small lights appeared in the valley
each of them coming from what was already gone
The View
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