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The Quarry


The years have probed essential bone.

Sun's countless lances pierce the skin.

Blue is the blue of childhood kingdoms

lording the multitudes of green.


The young are full of grace and wonder.

Their bodies court a long July.

I am a month or two beyond them,

alert to the longings of decay.


What rhythm captivates the hunted,

sings in his ear to spur his flight?

It was the plainsong that I wanted,

heard in the grasses, though too late.


Flesh is a temporary cover.

Grass clings to stone, lover to lover.


Jan Schreiber



From Wily Apparitions, Cummington Press,
1992.  Reprinted by permission of the author.


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