Rivering: The Poetry of Daphne Marlatt

Coming in, who

Coming in, who used to live here, used to the sweep of kabun’s broom edge of a tideline morning used to run her energy along, alone exulting in birdsong, liquid trills, squawks the long reversible arc of his arm swept up grass, not up, around a kind of sortilege, kabun at the bottom of the garden, not looking up at the under side of sky, in the easy sweep of his arm, the long advance of noon, a tide poured through his broom she ran, through crests of song wave on wave, recede, while the broom continues its faroff rush, like surf coming in, she’s gone The Poetry of Daphne Marlatt / 5 ...