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FURTHER READING
Poems by Marianne Boruch
Human Atlas
Little Fugue
Snowfall in G Minor
Still Life
Poems about Time
08/22/08
by David Lehman
Figure
by Marjorie Welish
from Oracles for Youth
by Caroline Gilman
In Betweenness
by Pierre Joris
Individual Time
by Alice Notley
Manifest Destiny
by Cynthia Lowen
Meeting and Passing
by Robert Frost
Mimosa
by Mary Ruefle
On Time
by John Milton
Paper Swallow
by Stanley Moss
Poem with Lines from Pierre Reverdy
by Sandra Simonds
Real Time
by Charlie Smith
Slur
by Jacek Gutorow
Song of Quietness
by Robinson Jeffers
The Edges of Time
by Kay Ryan
The Moon in Time Lapse
by David Rivard
The Sun-Dial
by Adelaide Crapsey
Thief
by Sally Van Doren
Time does not bring relief (Sonnet II)
by Edna St. Vincent Millay
To a Young Girl at a Window
by Margaret Widdemer
Poems about Tragedy
#4
by Jane Miller
A Wedding at Cana, Lebanon, 2007
by Tom Sleigh
Blood
by Naomi Shihab Nye
Falling
by James Dickey
Imagine
by Kamilah Aisha Moon
Montparnasse
by Ernest Hemingway
Oklahoma City: The Aftermath
by Ira Sadoff
Poem for Japan
by Matthew Zapruder
Shirt
by Robert Pinsky
Song ["When I am dead, my dearest"]
by Christina Rossetti
Survivors--Found
by Joan Murray
You Can't Survive on Salt Water
by Kalamu ya Salaam
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What God Knew

 
by Marianne Boruch

when he knew nothing.  A leaf
looks like this, doesnít it? No one
to ask. So came the invention
of the question too, the way all 
at heart are rhetorical, each leaf
suddenly wedded to its shade. When God 

knew nothing, it was better, wasn't it? 
Not the color blue yet, its deep 
unto black.  No color at all really, 
not yet one thing leading to another, sperm 
to egg endlessly, thus cities, thus 
the green countryside lying down 
piecemeal, the meticulous and the trash, 
between lake and woods 
the dotted swiss of towns along 
any state road. Was God

sleeping when he knew nothing?  As opposed 
to up all night (before there was night) 
or alert all day  (before day)?  As opposed to that,
little engine starting up by itself, history, 
a thing that keeps beginning
and goes past its end. Will it end, this
looking back?  From here, it's one shiny 
ravaged century after another, 
but back there, in a house or two: a stillness, 
a blue cup, a spoon, one silly flower raised up 
from seed.  I think so fondly of the day 
someone got lucky 
and dodged the tragedy meant for him. It spilled 
like sound from a faulty speaker
over an open field. He listened from
a distance. God-like, any one of us
could say.






From Grace, Fallen From by Marianne Boruch. Copyright © 2008 by Marianne Boruch. Published by Wesleyan University Press. Used by permission of the publisher. All rights reserved.
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