I rose from marsh mud, algae, equisetum, willows, sweet green, noisy birds and frogs to see her wed in the rich rich silence of the church, the little white slave-girl in her diamond fronds. In aisle and arch the satin secret collects. United for life to serve silver. Possessed.
—for a sixty-seven-pound nugget of Lake Superior copper found in an Iowa cornfield Before the earliest flute was carved from a vulture’s wing, before we—what few we were— bowed to the moon, the balmy, secular night, you were coming. Snug in the great throat of a glacier. Still as a wish, until its sighing end. I like to think you waited years for us, one shoulder greening in the damp, the other burnished by long leaves of wheat, before we called it wheat. Or was it loess, the wind’s fine veil, polished you so bright we would know you at first sight? What have you seen in the ice and the earth? Is hell cold, or hot? Do you pray, too? And to what god? Or whale, or bigger rock?