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FENCE WIRE Too tight, it is running over Too much of this ground to be still Or to do anything but tremble And disappear left and right As far as the eye can see Over hills, through woods, Down roads, to arrive at last Again where it connects, Coming back from the other side Of animals, defining their earthly estate As the grass becomes snow While they are standing and dreaming Of grass and snow. The winter hawk that sits upon its post, Feeling the airy current of the wires, Turns into a robin, sees that this is wrong, Then into a boy, and into a man who holds His palm on the top tense strand With the whole farm feeding slowly And nervously into his hand. If the wire were cut anywhere All his blood would fall to the ground And leave him standing and staring With a face as white as a Hereford's. From years of surrounding grain, Cows, horses, machinery trying to turn To rust, the humming arrives each second, A sound that arranges these acres And holds them highstrung and enthralled. Because of the light, chilled hand On the top thread tuned to an E Like the low string of a guitar, Helmets 115 The dead corn is more Balanced in death than it was, The animals more aware Within the huge human embrace Held up and borne out of sight Upon short, unbreakable poles Wherethrough the ruled land intones Like a psalm: properly, With its eyes closed, Whether on the side of the animals Or not, whether disappearing Right, left, through trees or down roads, Whether outside, around, or in. 116 ...

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