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Hannah Craig

All morning they mow in the flat,
rain-fed fields without once
glancing up. They appear or vanish

by consequence of light,
like boats in a trough of silence.
At those times, only the brass

of their gleaming hands,
like the heads of hunting seals,
here and there upon the crests

and billows. Here and there,
the great fat arms of a fabled,
dying breed, intimately killing,

sweeping through the glumes
and lemmas, small particles
of this sea, dust motes of this sea,

leaved in every part, stalked
by the milksop sun, down, down
through many sails to draw anchor

in us, in our very breasts. O brilliant
ones, sheaving in the fields, what
catch for those who are not called

to fish for men, but only feed them?

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