Winter 1950 • Vol. XII No. 1 Poetry |

Birth Day

  I rose from unusual water, crying there is a wound that never heals, a mannaland    as wide as lap. O lie me down in buccal pools, crying   darkness in the sap    where light may slip.     O hand   me no keys to disturb my lying.         I hurried to the indolent willow where the sun made honey on the waspy pool.    I never knew why the bank grew warm, the willow   lashed and blew,    dipped in the lucid     pool,   or what makes growing out of fallow.         That summer, in the canal, playing with round stones, bent with water, tarry gravel    and hiding crawdads, I sensed the prying waters, playing   momma to fish,    sliding in the rushy    hovel,   kissing the sleepy seed to daying.         I walked with Alice through the glass: I felt her hand squeeze tighter as we entered light.    But why she turned And took me to he

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