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BREAKING THE SOIL Stines Corner Now in June—the wren ascending into the basswood, The canes of the roses curving into bloom— I lean upon the arm of the hoe, wanting nothing But the opening of each outward arc. The topsoil spreads before me in small, even curds: A way of measuring my way these mornings With their distances and bells, evenings The light spills softly from its sources in the earth. I don’t want to be anywhere else except maybe Sooner, and there only if it meant arriving A little brighter and less bruised. Here, on the verge Of time’s couch and plenitude, I’d like to be Through with arrivals. It’s taken me nearly 40 years To shuck my little handful of understandings. I’d like to have some time now in which to move Among them, sorting out the bells of morning From the bells of evening light. I’d like to hull The merely reflexive, first-person pronoun And layer it upon the compost where it might do Some good. Hoeing up another pocket of stones, 7 I think of my father’s weekends hauling rocks In order to wall the garden my stepmother thought She’d like, of that patch I dug a few years back For a woman the color of quartz. Beyond me in the kitchen with its great fir beam, My love goes about her rhythms, setting the table With wooden bowls, lighting the stiff-wicked Candles. I love how her black hair cascades, Nights she arcs above me, flesh of our love together, As though trellised with dark wild grapes. 8 ...

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