124 VII
Stalker for K. M. Grant He waits. Without knowing me, he waits. The tips of branches, edible and winey, bring spring by suggestion to him who in autumn dawn, eager, with wet knees, disregards me, being drawn by me. He waits and in me he waits. I branch, the form is branching, it bounds like sight from dark to bright, back again. The form is from me: it is him, poem, stag, first sight and most known. In him I wait: (when he falls) needs must (hot heap), nothing left over (treelike no longer) nor forlorn: we’re totalled.
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