They, lost, and to the

touch of one another do go

and to say such things

in the grass plain of day

gone long -- to be comfortable

or to lie there ruinng one's clothes

and in the air above the growing lawn

a bell reflects itself in sound

and asks -- what will will leave you

this? -- to touch and at once

to be touhed. Easy again blows

the warm wind and we bend to it

as does the grass, but we are wanting.

--Joshua Beckman