Today's poem is by Jesse Lichtenstein
A certain body is drawn
to water, a certain other drawn
to that body. So specific grasses
anchor only in the slow-built dunes
or certain shores, or retard
a long-suffering windward
hillside in its sea-slide. In tall reeds
hands find flesh, below flesh
liquid; still lower
newer mixtures stir themselves
the body sinks to its affinity.
When waves discharge at
the point break or slip into the silk
harbor with the returning fleet
a scent lifts from the catch.
Who wouldn't wish to be
the agent of their propagation?
Giving oneself over to the littoral.
Copyright © 2006 Jesse Lichtenstein All rights reserved
from Quarterly West
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission
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