PASTORAL Comments

I

15 meters from the road to Batuan, there is a dike on a river's edge, and
the din of someone driving away birds,
someone wading down to the river, singing,
someone tasting the stream,
trailing the sound
of cold's smacking
on the pores of the forest,
currents that comb the boulders,
boulders which, like the shoulders of an ox, hold you back.

At 7:15, the river limpid disrobes you


II

Sometimes I want
us to vanish like a pair of lizards
in wild grass

like luster—
...
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