POINTS ON THE GRID
George Bowering
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A REDEMPTION
I somehow see you
as the new statement
of a myth,
encounter you
a long-hidden statue
in a jungled-over city,
gold discovered
only by an accidental
flick of the eye.
I try to be tender
moving away the long grass
and pray pagan and greedy
for human associated
soft spearing sunlight,
nearly afraid to trace
with my finger
along your golden brow.
And kiss the warming afternoon lips.
I wait for the sun to blot by;
I kneel and wait for the grass
to cover me.
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