He was touched or he touched or

He was touched or he touched or   
she did and was, or they were   
and would. Or the room could, its   
three doors, two windows or   

the house on a slant touching,   
touched by the drift down street, cars   
pressing quick or slowing. All along   
the town touched a river, the river   

the filth falling through it. What was clean—   
a source pure as rumor—a shore   
touching lake touched by wind above,   
and below, a spring. All touch blindly

further water. That blue touching   
blacker regions in the sea so weirdly   
solitary, each to under, to every   
sideways past deeper, where nowhere.

More Poems by Marianne Boruch