The pin oak has found new meat,

The linkworm a bone to pick.

Lolling its head, slicking its blue tongue,

The nightflower blooms on its one stem;

The crabgrass hones down its knives:

Between us again there is nothing.  And since

The darkness is only light

That has not yet reached us,

You slip it on like a glove.

Duck soup, you say.  This is duck soup.

And so it is.

                 Along the far bank

Of Blood Creek, I watch you turn

In the light, and turn, and turn,

Feeling it change on your changing hands.

Feeling it take.  Feeling it.