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by Lydia Raurell

Long ago in the cattails mud between the toes running mad we ran over

lightfoot between the rocks leaping the water spaces

to reach the high grass

At 10 am was the second cup fingerends at cigarette

a list of unthoughts tied in string a paper bag to carry them

she faced the window as a door to weightlessness

it begins to be time to go again

Watching the light

lick goldfish back weeds below the ripple and once a snake

whipped black beneath the lilypads we danced in the high grass

hot sun on our bare backs

higher than the geese above us

Grey lights on an unwashed rug

she sits on the edge of a smoke field below in the street a wino prance

of sour breath and tympanum

at 12 pm her foot falls asleep

it begins to be time to go again

Catching the wrists of the willow trees sprung into light and air

free flung and breathless

in the rush of the willow sweep out beyond the dragonflies catching prisms on our tongues from earth to sky and back again as arches or bridges or wind


Newspapers blown against the

windowpane an empty book of matches

she wipes the table half clean with the inside of her hand

at 2 prn the telephone rings

to tell her new directions

she has preferred the old ones

and it begins to be time to go again

In quest of the turtle painted black red and gold the net hid behind us

as lace on a breeze

bent elbows thrust forward the swallow dips low skimming waterlips

spraystung from laughter below

4 pm is teatime

the teabag taste of dust

the lights begin to glare in yellow making shadows stop on walls she knows the day is wasting

and quietly rubs her spoon

it begins to be time to go again

Following water from dam to downstream skipping pebbles and watercress foaming white water froth under

our knees grasping for mercury minnows like sliver lights into the rock pool where moss sips the cool and our hands touch as one sound

They are all to come

the husbands fathers and sons the open mouths reaching hands she silently thinks of a red fan

it begins to be time to go again

Deep in the woods in the oak chambers shading the rim of the water

the whispers of fallen leaves pressed against skin the lightdappled

wood smells

as keepers of secrets of earth breath and passion


She sleeps She dreams

ARIA copyright 1975 by Lydia Raurell

MEMBER (orQ~~i~~


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Bard Press

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