Summer 1998 • Vol. XX No. 3/4 PoetryJuly 1, 1998 |

Grace Notes

Smell of ash in the air, a distant burning, and the clatter of wild turkeys, the racket of sex; the woods are full of it,           wing- tipped, cry of the flicker like some derangement of the senses, the steering of fernlip towards the light, what little we have.     A low rolling of thunder and the rain when it comes falls like a form of angelic restlessness, an imagined sighing— a bitter tonic after a long illness. Violets bloom at the edge of the lawn like the purple release of blood under the skin.        Kyrie, says the flicker, all desire and beginning. I doubt it. This understory of gauzy brush not yet shaken out is a shimmering scarcely achieved.                 The self wants to sing, for who can bear the containment of the trees, the eyes' aptitude for green now? The woods are full of it, rain falling like a part of speech nearly forgotten,        like grace notes from a page of

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