FAS




Momentous and trivial, I
walk along the lake cliff
and look north where the lake
curls to a wisp through the hills
 
and say as if to the lake,
I'm here, too,
and to the winter storm centered
gnarl-black over the west bank,
 
I nearly call out, it's me, I'm here:
the wind-fined
snow nicks
my face, mists my lashes
 
and the sun, not dwindling me, goes
on down behind the storm and the reed
withes' wind doesn't whistle, brother! brother!
and no person comes.
           
 
 
 
A.R.Ammons
I Could Not Be Here At All






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