Once, I Poem by Jane Hirshfield
Once, I
Once, I
was seven Spanish bullocks in a high meadow,
sleepy and nameless.
As-ifness strange to myself, but complete.
Light on the neck-nape
of time
as two wings of one starling,
or lovers so happy
neither needs think of the other.
Monday, July 30, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: wings
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8/12/2026 8:55:46 AM # rel_20260811T123139Z_a98d49b
