a poem for summer time by wally stevens


the woman in sunshine 

 

It is only that this warmth and movement are like

The warmth and movement of a woman.

 

It is not that there is any image in the air

Nor the beginning nor end of a form:

 

It is empty. But a woman in threadless gold

Burns us with brushings of her dress

 

And a dissociated abundance of being,

More definite for what she is —

 

Because she is disembodied,

Bearing the odors of the summer fields,

 

Confessing the taciturn and yet indifferent,

Invisibly clear, the only love.

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