.
.
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 want him
to forgive me.
.
~ Robert Bly
.
