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Earth’s lost plantation, waiting for all, all, All to be well: the fountain translates the sun. I do not see but know God follows me, And I follow, without fear of madness, Paths and turnings that are both wild and formal, Of all colors or none, tiger-lily and rock, Pools dead with the weight of fallen leaves, and falls, Follow after him I love, who waits in the garden. Mercy, Pity, Fear and Shame Spring in this garden, for it is earth’s. My body is not air, it casts a shadow. At the next turning I come upon him I love Waiting by the tree from my childhood that drops White petals that hugely snow on the whitening ground. He takes my arm and we walk a little way Away from the tree towards the shining river Running clear green through the garden. The allegorists’ arrow has struck me down. I freeze in the noise of the flood. When my love bends to speak, it is a language I do not know: I answer and have no voice, I am deaf, I am blind, I reach out to touch his face And touch a spot of spittled clay, my eye, Hiding the garden, the river, the tree. Cambridge by Night Down the aisles of this dark town Pass faces and faces I have known In the green, dog days, I forget their names, Forget their faces. Every public place in this city Is a sideshow of souls sword-swallowing pity: dream barker 47 Father Dog-face barks without a sound, The penny candles stare me down. You were so close I could have touched the dead Childhood in your face, Left my mother’s house a bride With a light, Night-light, dawn, to be by your side All night, But wanting pity, pity stood Between us in your face. Nothing troubles the dark: the last Tiffany windows are out. Their ghosts Might be my dutch uncles; pity it’s summer, they’re out of the city. To a Friend I cannot give you much or ask you much. Though I shore myself up until we meet, The words we say are public as the street: Your body is walled up against my touch. Our ghosts bob and hug in the air where we meet, My reason hinges on arcs you draw complete, And yet you are walled up against my touch. Your love for me is, in its way, complete, Like alabaster apples angels eat, But since it is in this world that we meet I cannot give you much or ask you much. You go your way, I mine, and when we meet, Both half-distracted by the smells of the street, Your body is walled up against my touch. 48 door in the mountain ...

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