[from George Oppen's New Collected Poems (with CD), New Directions, 2008]
Inaudibly soars; bole-like, tapering:
Sail flattens from it beneath the wind.
The limp water holds the boat's round
Slants dry light on the deck.
Beneath us glide
Rocks, sands, and unrimmed holes.
. . .
No interval of manner
Your body in the sun.
You? A solid, this that the dress
Your face unaccented, your mouth a mouth?
It is you who truly
Excel the vegetable,
The fitting of grasses — more bare than
Pointedly bent, your elbow on a car-edge
Incognito as summer