Cows
I had a bay all to myself, the low rocks
crumbled more into the sea.
It turned white-hot. Herds of brown
cows came, stood up to their bellies
in the shining water.
It's not because it was idyllic,
the earth was old, though, and more chaste.
This I would never see again, but
who was it who saw this. And how
to write it down: Monday and Tuesday
are not deadly, the yearning for
that deep-enchanted I can be subdued.
As if I can be soothed.
