It has a hole in it. Not only where I

concentrate.

The river still ribboning, twisting up,

into its re-

arrangements, chill enlightenments, tight-knotted

quickenings

and loosenings–whispered messages dissolving

the messengers–

the river still glinting-up into its handfuls, heapings.

glassy

forgettings under the river of

my attention–

and the river of my attention laying itself down–

bending,

reassembling–over the quick leaving-offs and windy

obstacles–

and the surface rippling under the wind’s attention–

rippling over the accumulations, the slowed-down drifting

permanences

of the cold

bed.

I say iridescent and I look down.

The leaves very still as they are carried.

Analysis, meaning and summary of Jorie Graham's poem The Surface

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