It was first dark when the plow turned it up. Unsown, it came fleshless, mud-ruddled, nothing but itself, the tendon's bored eye threading a ponderous needle. And yet the pocked fist of one end dared what was undone in the strewing, defied the mouth of the hound that dropped it. The whippoorwill began again its dusk-borne mourning. I had never
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More info about the poet: Claudia Emerson - references bibliography