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The Surface

Written by: Jorie Graham | Biography
 It has a hole in it. Not only where I

 concentrate.

The river still ribboning, twisting up, 

 into its re-

arrangements, chill enlightenments, tight-knotted

 quickenings

and loosenings--whispered messages dissolving

 the messengers--

the river still glinting-up into its handfuls, heapings.

 glassy

forgettings under the river of

my attention--

and the river of my attention laying itself down--

 bending,

reassembling--over the quick leaving-offs and windy

 obstacles--

and the surface rippling under the wind's attention--

rippling over the accumulations, the slowed-down drifting

 permanences

of the cold

bed.

I say iridescent and I look down.

The leaves very still as they are carried.



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