The mordants in their noise,
the night transports.
A means of coming to
the switchyard of the tongue.
To have once
set such store by
Not changed toward
something of my own.
The towns raised chaffed
seas to ground them.
In that frieze before
storm you went on.
Effigy loomed out
of cornfield. Future
inside its trussed forms.
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Comments about this poem (Pastoral by Emily Wilson )
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