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Green fingers holding the hillside must

Green fingers
holding the hillside
mustard whipping in
the sea winds one blood bright
poppy breathing in
and out. The odor
of Spanish earth comes
up to me yellowed
with my own piss.
40 miles from Málaga
half the world away
from home I am home and
nowhere a man who envies
Two oxen browse
yoked together in the green clearing
below. Their bells cough. When
the darkness and the wet roll in
at dusk they gather
their great slow bodies toward
the stalls.
If my spirit
descended now it would be
a lost gull flaring against
a deepening hillside or an angel
who cries too easily or a single
glass of seawater no longer blue
or mysterious and still salty.

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by:- admin posted in:- philip levine

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