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Afield


Out where crows dip to their kill
under the clouds' languid white oars
she wanders, hand pocketed,
hair combed tight
so she won't feel the breeze quickening--
as if she were trying to get
back to him,


Find the breach in the green
that would let her slip through,
then tug meadow over the wound
like a sheet.


I've walked there, too: he can't give
you up, so you give in until you
can't live without him.


Like these blossoms, white sores
burst upon earth's ignorant flesh,
at first sight everything is innocence--
then it's itch, scratch, putrescense.

Written by Rita Dove

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