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Incommunicado

Incommunicado

1 min
268


The groundhog on the mountain did not run

But fatly scuttled into the splayed fern

And faced me, back to a ledge of dirt, to rattle

Her sallow rodent teeth like castanets

Against my leaning down, would not exchange

For that wary clatter sound or gesture

Of love : claws braced, at bay, my currency not hers.

Such meetings never occur in marchen

Where love-met groundhogs love one in return,

Where straight talk is the rule, whether warm or hostile,

Which no gruff animal misinterprets.

From what grace am I fallen. Tongues are strange,

Signs say nothing. The falcon who spoke clear

To Canacee cries gibberish to coarsened ears. 


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