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- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - 2005-03-29 | [Text in der Originalsprache: english] | Veröffentlicht von x
The groundhog on the mountain did not run
But fatly scuttled into the splayed fern And faced me, back to a ledge of dirt, to rattle Her sallow rodent teeth like castanets Against my leaning down, would not exchange For that wary clatter sound or gesture Of love : claws braced, at bay, my currency not hers. Such meetings never occur in marchen Where love-met groundhogs love one in return, Where straight talk is the rule, whether warm or hostile, Which no gruff animal misinterprets. From what grace am I fallen. Tongues are strange, Signs say nothing. The falcon who spoke clear To Canacee cries gibberish to coarsened ears.
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