In the supreme already worn-out effort
of infinite artists, inspired prophets,
imaginal philologists. The language
is always the same but isn't, the absolute
or the abstract. I saw her legs moving
in the water, her feet depressing sand,
I heard the song she sang using the air
as her medium. Why might we sing again
the experience of love? O the trails
that we all know! The demonstrated loss
in a lilting music, the posture showing
her sadness. Yet, another effort I
have composed. Singing about her being
is something that we are always doing.
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