who's westering til sure a few words of mine drop in empty at a spot
by a lake, exquisitely full of Genet
and one catches on a length of shore gold like her very self, a shrewd
impassivity with geese and all
She's away and trenchant as her pure mind is, intent on the lake that
may or mayn't reply to her,
too busy with trenchant leaves I guess, and guys like me who did hurt
a true dear Acadian in her
She of a dilly verve who moves you instead to discompose the unkind
and the untrue, ever--
til sadly you can just see a patch of pure land at her bench, emptying
and never still as you'd like
her to be
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