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?