RE/DEEM
RE/DEEM
Pale fog in the valley, still, a sun here
eastward. To this I swear—a light breeze
about my arms and breasts, drying grass
on the crests of the hillocks, green between,
meadowlark call, earth tone, sweet,
well-willing beyond all deserving—my oath,
my fealty, my troth, to serve this earth.
The “innocent” can’t help us, or won’t.
None but guilty blood this rite perform,
and better the children know.
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