Kore

   I didn’t



realize there was no grass.



There was dirt to



be swept up



to chant 



dirt. I have



seen her in



the glance (glass)



of a sun,



in the light



up on the dock.



Under the dirt,



she calls the salt



rock she forgot:



it’s time



for the ground



to be beaten by my foot



and the more



it happens the more



I want it to. I didn’t



realize how dry



it could be next 



to the sea



(we say ocean).



How she has



returned, rejecting water



for the gravel our feet



make, how it is time



for us to smile,



to break the rock in two,



to pull up the roots,



and kick



the hill as



acorns have stormed



the ground (I



mean oak).



I know nothing



of this, I grasp



the dirt I



thought was rock.



I didn’t realize how



much I would



want the water



in the olive grove,



how much



the tree-tops



make a field



that is raised, how



salt pervades,



how I may



have forgot



how much



was one.