Something Almost Always Drops Into Place

The shepherd asks for her hand, but

she refuses and later hires him

onto her farm, and the neighbouring farmer

falls in love with her, but she falls

in love with the handsome sergeant,

and marries him, but the one he loves

dies, and he leaves and so it goes.

 

Like the changes of Stella by Starlight,

chords falling to cadence,

and falling,  start another sequence.

 

Or like when Pegasus took a plunge

behind the ridge of new maples last night.

 

And, almost always, there’s a rising back,

against the grain, so that, just when

 

 Pandarus is about to skewer Menelaus

Homer gives us his bow- how it’s made

Of polished ibex horn, where he shot it,

how he fashioned it- and so it goes

 

And holds us there. And there

is almost always something like a ruffle

against the grain, a countervail

 

That suspends us against the gravity,

that takes shape for a moment, and then

 

Is folded in, and takes its place

in the joyful general collapse again.

 

 

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