Sunday, February 13, 2011

passing an orchard by train



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Grass high under apple trees.
The bark of the trees rough and sexual 
the grass growing heavy and uneven.
.
We cannot bear disaster like
the rocks-
swaying nakedly
in open fields.
.
One slight bruise and we die!
I know no one on this train.
A man comes walking down the aisle.
I want to tell him
that I forgive him that I want him
to forgive me.

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~ Robert Bly

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