Philip Levine

Told

The air lay soffly on the green fur
of the almond, it was April
 
and I said, I begin again
but my hands burned in the damp earth
 
the light ran between my fingers
a black light like no other
 
this was not home, the linnet
settling on the oleander
 
the green pod swelling
the leaf slowly untwisting
 
the slashed egg fallen from the nest
the tongue of grass tasting
 
I was being told by a pulse slowing
in the eyes
 
the dove mourning in shadow
a nerve waking in the groin
 
the distant hills
turning their white heads away
 
told by the clouds assembling
in the trees, told by the blooming
 
of a black mouth beneath the rose
the worm sobbing, the dust
 
settling on my eyelid, told
by salt, by water, told and told.
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