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ISSUE:  Autumn 1984

Deep in the hills, in the noon sun,
through the white gate, through the white front door,
up the stairs to the room, and the white dress—

up the stairs, to the cupola,
where the turning world—the trees, the hills,
the hills beyond circumference—returned.

Is this what body comes to, then,
after the dinners, the talk, the wine,
hello, goodbye, is this the way,
most I, most who I am?

He was perfect muse, the god who was
and was not there. She had no mother,
she said, her mother was awe.

But awe was also muse, was house,
was hills, beyond the hills—

Mother, wife, the earth at last.
For us it goes the other way:

the deep green cave, the flesh
of love, the wings
of the white election—


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