[Record no oiled tongue, diary]

Record no oiled tongue, diary— Note my lantern bruises the low Clouds with light the evening We talked. Almonds in a bowl; She ate none. I did Not bid her remove her dark Gloves as sometime before she had done. Her dress not so clean as before. A last brand not rescued to flame— No billow but breath, and breath Too short a line to twine Our hands in marriage: I left A last time. Her in widow’s silk— My lantern clothed in morning Dawns on this road so late tonight The white birches I believe, I believe I could have loved Her, her white wrists White the birch trees by lantern bared, Black gloves pulled off at night Become the night . . . . Do you hear? That pulse? The deer wander Between her hands, glean fallen Seed at hand, bed down in fallen Needles and grass. Those green discs Afloat in the night are their eyes Caught in lantern light. Can it be So many wake the forest glows With sight? See and am seen. A pulse At the stump is breath and rest And breath again. Infinite In store the game of this land. Note the plumage of the turkey. Note the thick meat at breast. Sap: syrup. Pine: plank. A copse Of wood is cord for furnace. A copse Is cottage, too. The owl in the hollow Tree screeches because I am too close To truth. Note the almond Tree overmuch with fruit. The almond Pressed is oil sweet. The almond bit Is a smoky meat that leaves—note it: The tongue bathed in oil.