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First Love

At his incipient sun

The ice of twenty winters broke,

Crackling, in her eyes.

Her mirroring, still mind,

That held the world (made double) calm,

Went fluid, and it ran.

There was a stir of music,

Mixed with flowers, in her blood;

A swift impulsive balm

From obscure roots;

Gold bees of clinging light

Swarmed in her brow.

Her throat is full of songs,

She hums, she is sensible of wings

Growing on her heart.

She is a tree in spring

Trembling with the hope of leaves,

Of which the leaves are tongues.

The poem first ran on NERVE in 2000.