For Richard D. James
I am to ask the incessantness to heal me
as by simply enduring it has become
Music.
You already know me,
Moth-bitten me
And mine:
Waiting on a note from a scale to sound,
Not a melody--
We were born and lived and went caressingly without
But a coarse ripple stirs us,
Convinces us in our haggardback stooping that
The field is not Everything.
Abigail
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