Up from the bog
And its wallowing magic
He exits in text
Into the richness of
Like the feet of slatterns
By Christ; His hands
Settling on scrupulous
Surfaces of flesh.
We know who emerges
From a cleanliness,
Who wears cassava root as soul,
Even if only the Pollyannaish
Believe in it; what they
Don’t know won't ever hurt them,
Because the smell of mud
Inspires the perceptive, the
the ones who see more than
Ants in dirt, more than the
Movements of bashful critters
whose breaths are fleeting moonscapes.
In the vanishing, a
Calmer power exudes,
Palpable as hinterland rain,
Now entering memory and
Leveling its walls; a Joshua
Of imagery comes cupping lands.
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Comments about this poem (Heaney by Lamont Palmer )
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