How is it no one looks down, Wanting soft green that splits away the stink of bone? Pulling down, reclaiming the rock in wonderful, watery folds. Even fish flake, They slip out of one layer, Back into the bed, Kissed from below the echoing hoot. Fields grapple the heavy dusk; Night lets colors fade, While croaks seek fellowship, And tree line bending wakes;
The spectrum wipes out the fear— Patterns and shades, you hear!
- Lorine Niedecker