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I thought I could imagine, looking down,

The field had grown a little different from

The weight of us; the ground indented where,

Upon this hill, this grass—that blade still bent—

For just a kiss, we deserted all the world.

Looking up, I saw an open place

Less secret than the one that I remembered;

The eyes that would remark could see this spot

From an embarrassment of vantage points.

Our privacy had been a phantom thing.

Back then we hadn't cared who saw us, lost

To all the fields of view except our own.

I marveled at our heedless indiscretion.

I wished only to be there, exposed again.


Robert Crawford



© 2000; originally printed in Garden Lane.
Reprinted by permission of the author.



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