It has a hole in it. Not only where I <br /> <br /> concentrate. <br /> <br />The river still ribboning, twisting up, <br /> <br /> into its re- <br /> <br />arrangements, chill enlightenments, tight-knotted <br /> <br /> quickenings <br /> <br />and loosenings--whispered messages dissolving <br /> <br /> the messengers-- <br /> <br />the river still glinting-up into its handfuls, heapings. <br /> <br /> glassy <br /> <br />forgettings under the river of <br /> <br />my attention-- <br /> <br />and the river of my attention laying itself down-- <br /> <br /> bending, <br /> <br />reassembling--over the quick leaving-offs and windy <br /> <br /> obstacles-- <br /> <br />and the surface rippling under the wind's attention-- <br /> <br />rippling over the accumulations, the slowed-down drifting <br /> <br /> permanences <br /> <br />of the cold <br /> <br />bed. <br /> <br />I say iridescent and I look down. <br /> <br />The leaves very still as they are carried.<br /><br />Jorie Graham<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-surface/
