Summer 1953 • Vol. XV No. 3 PoetryJuly 1, 1953 |

Speculation

In the coolness here I care Not for the down pressed noises overhead, I hear in my pearly bone the wear Of marble under the rain; nothing is truly dead, There is only the wearing away, The changing of means. Nor eyes I have To tell how in the summer the turtle dove Rocks on the hemlock's arm, nor ears to rend The sad regretful mind With the call of the horned lark. I lie so still that the earth around me Shakes with the weight of day; I do not mind if the vase Holds decomposed cut flowers, or if they send One of their kind to tidy up. Such play I have no memories of, Nor of the firebush flowers, or the bark Of the rough pine where the crows With their great haw and flap Circle in kinned excitement when a wind blows. I am kin with none of these, Nor even wed to the yellowing silk that splits; My sensitive bones, which dreaded As all the living do, the dead, Wait for some unappointed pattern. The wits Of countless centuries dry in my skull and overhead I do not heed the first rain out

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This Space

By Ruth Stone

In the coolness here I care Not for the down pressed noises overhead, I hear in my pearly bone the wear Of marble under the rain; nothing is truly dead, […]

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