She, barely she,
without age, without hair,
without eyes to widen,
without legs to carry her away,
feels nothing
but here
in the desolate womb of time
- the pat on the head,
the knuckle under the chin -
there is something he feels .
Something happened here.
The flesh of the continent split
accepting some seed; some grace
planted this furrow when the moon was reaped
and brought forth daughters.
One crop exhausted the garden,
left this wound, sealed by a sword turned every way.
Behind, the clamor of Pacific trenches, and Poland
mulched with his generation yet another wound.
Between him and Mrican infancy this glaring fault.
In the socket of Eden these two
silence the sun's stuck klaxon
with a passion enigmatic as a skull
that fathers a simple human light,
ancient and mild as morning on green fields.
