Am I not as God made me but stranger?
Made stranger still by what I have seen
at this hour of earth untended, unministered—
light caught up in the river’s grooved tread
That sun more like a mass grope out of emptiness
and the black river weeds before it, torn and trained,
rocketed and stark and stuck-to
The tall shadow of the willow grows forth....
....The fish in my skin relinquishes
Will I know then what I have become?
The river darkens from its end of trees closing in
There is the sun and this deep depression
Exiting as viewed in this river
--from, Winter Journal: The Sky Is the Lost Orpheum; Emily Wilson
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