By Lorine Niedecker
He lived—childhood summers
thru bare feet
then years of money’s lack
and heat
beside the river—out of flood
came his wood, dog,
woman, lost her, daughter—
prologue
to planting trees. He buried carp
beneath the rose
where grass-still
the marsh rail goes.
To bankers on high land
he opened his wine tank.
He wished his only daughter
to work in the bank
but he’d given her a source
to sustain her—
a weedy speech,
a marshy retainer.
Lorine Niedecker, "He Lived Childhood Summers" from Collected Works, edited by Jenny Penberthy. Copyright © 2002 by the Regents of the University of California. Reprinted with the permission of the University of California Press.
Source: Collected Works (The University of California Press, 2002)
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