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Second Mother Black hair, and the white hill, and the one cedar tree, “like a soldier,” the ripe hot stench of your motorcycle, its squatting gleam . . . Then, by the river, Ha! Ha! I could have touched your bright white circles, your nipples’ little red mouths, redder than my mother’s. Black Hair, Black Hair! I was four, you were sixteen, seventeen, half-girl, half-mother, you held out safety like a sugar cube, but how could I get to suck on it? in this world . . . The Sea of Serenity The Sea of Serenity: my mother’s body: ashes: the appearance of land, and the appearance of water. Books by the fireplace: gold brocade and silver: but love, oh love. Outside the door. Earth said, Eat. Earth said, Shame. Mother, on my hands and knees, face flat in the leaves, I chomp after you like a horse. 208 door in the mountain Who died? Who died? Who died? My Mother’s Body, My Professor, My Bower Who died? My mother’s body, my professor, my bower, my giant clam. Serene water, professor of copious clay, of spiraling finger-holes in the clay, of blue breast-milk, first pulse, all thought: there is nothing to get. You can’t eat money, dear throat, dear longing, dear belly, dear fatness, dear silky fastness: ecstatic lungs’ breath, you can’t protect yourself, there is nothing to get. Butane The huge aluminum airship is gliding over us, you and I with our children walking by Westport’s trees, seashore, gold trees, gold seashore. I say, What’s that? But no one sees it. Then the second ship crashes just behind us, spills butane lighter fluid over the field, thinly spreading, fast, out over the next field; the river at wolf 209 ...

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