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226 gArnet poems The Harrowing To enter the field without speaking Of the bad years is to trust what is Buried, or at least sleeps. All I bring to dirt Will rise again through green, what survives The first plough. Also: an uncertain fawn Or rabbit taken up and broken by tines Becomes part of the work, held in morning Light, thrown to the dog. We mend most everything Known, marks in a field where we maintain Others were before, also turning earth So that one after another we rely on meaning Nothing, even for what is left behind. In this place, to stay Only as long as it takes; how to enter And allow for leaving without getting caught. ...

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