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