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Work I won't look at her. My body's been one Solid motion from sunrise, Leaning into the lawnmower's Roar through pine needles & crabgrass. Tiger-colored Bumblebees nudge pale blossoms Till they sway like silent bells Calling. But I won't look. Her husband's outside Oxford, Mississippi, bidding on miles Of timber. I wonder if he's buying Faulkner's ghost, if he might run Into Colonel Sartoris Along some dusty road. Their teenage daughter & son sped off An hour ago in a red Corvette For the tennis courts, & the cook, Roberta, Only works a half day Saturdays. This antebellum house Looms behind oak & pine Like a secret, as quail Flash through branches. I won't look at her. Nude On a hammock among elephant ears & ferns, a pitcher of lemonade Sweating like our skin. Afternoon burns on the pool .Till everything's blue, Till I hear Johnny Mathis Beside her like a whisper. I work all the quick hooks Of light, the same unbroken Rhythm my father taught me Years ago: Always give A man a good day's labor. I won't look. The engine Pulls me like a dare. Scent of honeysuckle II New Poems Sings black sap through mystery, Taboo, law, creed, what kills A fire that is its own heart Burning open the mouth. But I won't look At the insinuation of buds Tipped with cinnabar. I'm here, as if I never left, Stopped in this garden, Drawn to some Lotus-eater. Pollen Explodes, but I only smell Gasoline & oil on my hands, & can't say why there's this bed Of crushed narcissus As if gods wrestled here. I2 N EON V ERN A C U L A R ...

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