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From the dark wood Until they come, amazed, upon A face that does not shine Back from itself, That holds its own light and takes more, Like the face ofthe dead, sitting still, Giving no sign, Making no outcry, no matter Who may be straining to hear. A DogSleeping onMy Feet Being his resting place, I do not even tense The muscles ofa leg Or I would seem to be changing. Instead, I turn the page Ofthe notebook, carefully not Remembering what I have written, For now, with my feet beneath him Dying like embers, The poem is beginning to move Up through my pine-prickling legs Out ofthe night wood, Taking hold ofthe pen by my fingers. Before me the fox floats lightly, On fire with his holy scent. All, all are running. Marvelous is the pursuit, Like a dazzle ofnails through the ankles, Like a twisting shout through the trees Sent after the flying fox Through the holes oflogs, over streams Stock-still with the pressure ofmoonlight. My killed legs, My legs of a dead thing, follow, Drowning with Others / 76 Quick as pins, through the forest, And all rushes on into dark And ends on the brightness ofpaper. When my hand, which speaks in a daze The hypnotized language of beasts, Shall falter, and fail Back into the human tongue, And the dog gets up and goes out To wander the dawning yard, I shall crawl to my human bed And lie there smiling at sunrise, With the scent ofthe fox Burning my brain like an incense, Floating out ofthe night wood, Coming home to my wife and my sons From the dream ofan animal, Assembling the selfI must wake to, Sleeping to grow back my legs. TheMovement ofFish No water is still, on top. Without wind, even, it is full Ofa chill, superficial agitation. It is easy to forget, Or not to know at all That fish do not move By means ofthis rippling Along the outside ofwater, or By anything touching on air. Where they are, it is still, Under a wooden bridge, Under the poised oar Ofa boat, while the rower leans And blows his mistaken breath To make the surface shake, The Movement ofFish / 77 ...

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