If the blue morning held in the glass of the window,if my fingers, my palms. If my thighs.If your hands, if my thighs.If the seeds, among all the lost gold oft the grass.If your hands on my thighs, if your tongue.If the leaves. If the singing fell upward. If grief.For a moment if singing and grief.If the blue of the body fell upward, out of our hands.If the morning held it like leaves.
-Jane Hirshfield
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