Grass high under apple trees,
The bark of the trees rough and sexual,
the grass growing heavy and uneven.
We cannot bear disaster, like
the rocks–
swaying nakedly
in open fields.
One slight bruise and we die!
I know no one on this train.
A man comes walking down the aisle.
I want to tell him
that I forgive him
that I forgive him, that I want him
to forgive me.
ROBERT BLY
