The hemlock, wafting, hemmed me in its skirt
And all about its underwater legs
I netted in the proper cut of a shirt

For falling on a pocketful of eggs,
A cloth of many buttonholes and hooks
It wiped the cooling detritus of plagues

In wind that, rising, rifled through the books,
A rainway in the crust of afternoons
Beneath the cloudwork blanketing the brooks

Of whistle reed and timber-gusted tunes
Across the lolling air and from the deep,
Awakening the lust of galling Junes,

It coursed the barking arteries that sweep
Into the oakwood undergrowth of sleep.

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