Concerning the Book that is the Body of the Beloved

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The river has a single song,
Which is itself.
The tree has a song.
The bird also.
The heart knows all
These songs
And a million of its own.

Neither the river
Nor the bird can write.
The tree moves
Its branches against
The sky all day
As if it’s thinking
About inventing
It’s own alphabet,
But nothing comes of it.

So it’s still up to us.
We’re supposed to bring
Them into the Book,
Make a place for them in our poems.
The world comes into the poem,
The poem comes into the world.
Reciprocity – it all comes down
To that.
As with lovers:
When it’s right you can’t say
Who is kissing whom.

by Gregory Orr

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