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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