After the life is lived
And the world is what it is,
There is only the story:
At Stevensport, the Sinking, River
Empties into the Ohio,
And the Ohio widens.
Or does the story perhaps precede
The living of it, as the new day
Seems to depend on the cock’s cry?
And do the dead and the unborn occupy
The same dimensionless dimension,
Or are they simply where they seem to be?
It would be easy enough to say
What happened, could you only
Bring yourself to:
No, a young woman—who has lived her life
With old-time parents on a farm
On what the Indians once called the Dark
And Bloody Ground, and who
Has a perhaps somewhat imprudent appetite