ANOTHER MARRIAGE

What is there in the landscape's whorl,

The fingerprint of dirt, that

Strikes the eye, a distant girl

Who, no matter what

 

Ways and means the mind

Might take, blown along

Whole avenues of wind,

No other face, no meadow wrung

 

From vision's atavistic trance

Displaces this one lay of land

And lake, or jams the homing dance

Of face and curl, so that a bird can

 

Find, hidden in a rural

Oyster bed, one specific pearl?