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   Thick green wrinkles of water light under the heavy branches and
   the air powdered metal, blood-warm, all over the face and neck.

   A rope wound in the hand, the rope slung in the branch above the
   head, and wind pouring over the legs, the legs prickled in the
   damp, white flecks in the dark.

   The air softening into drops of water, falling from the tips of
   leaves and collecting in the hair, the hair a froth of light, a
   mist-net of light, and the dark the large shadows of heavy trees,
   and a shelf of cloud gathering.

   Over the water the quick light gust of air, the air the pulse of
   phlox weighted with water.

   Reaching out into the air, and the rope snapping back, shocking
   the body, the rope stinging the hands, the feet twisted around the
   knot at the rope's base, and the flush of wet leaves and the
   whip-fast pulse of branches.

   If you were to see him, running and breaking into the green
   shadows of wet leaves on the water, if breaking into tree shadow
   if the rope creaking with your body's weight and dissolving
   before you even touched,

   if moving through the air the wall of water vapor bending into
   a web of green threads, and thick pollen hanging in the air,
   the wash of light on the river, and the river water thick,
   reddish, veined with the over-images of leaves and branches,
   and pushing back further into the ribs and the soft core of
   the heart, dapples of light.
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Article Details
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Author:Reges, Margaret
Publication:New Orleans Review
Article Type:Poem
Date:Jun 1, 2012
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