How I still know—a dark, unwounded thing,
a cruelty where a beautiful coupling
is once more shown, held back, torn to pieces.
How I was defenseless watching that process,
because it beckoned me, and then let go again,
and stayed behind, as if it were all women,
thought it was small and white and nothing but this:
a wave, no longer for me alone,
a gentle waving on, no more to be
explained: perhaps it is a plum tree
from which a cuckoo has now quickly flown.
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