The Precision by Linda Gregg 

 

There is a modesty in nature. In the small

Of it and in the strongest. The leaf moves

Just the amount the breeze indicates

And nothing more. In the power of lust, too,

There can be a quiet and a clarity, a fusion

of exact moments. There is a silence of it

inside the thundering. And when the body swoons,

it is because the heart knows its truth.

There is directness and equipoise in the fervor,

Just as the greatest turmoil has precision.

Like the discretion a tornado has when it tears

Down building after building, house by house.

It is enough, Kafka said, that the arrow fit

Exactly into the wound that it makes. I think

About my body in love as I look down on these

Lavish apple trees and the workers moving

With skill from one to the next, singing.

 

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