This stupid poem came into my head unbidden when I was running tonight and has lingered. To Elsie, by Williams: the middle part. An old poem, old to me, and older still. This part:
while the imagination strains
after deer
going by fields of goldenrod in
the stifling heat of September
Somehow
it seems to destroy us
It is only in isolate flecks that
something
is given off
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