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The Surface

 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.

by Jorie Graham
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