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The Helicopter

The helicopter,
a sort of controlled silver leaf
dropped lightly into the clearing.
The searchlights swung, the little girl,
the little girl was crying, her mother,
a girl herself,
was giving birth, the forest dropped
birdseeds of milk.
Then the helicopter lifted away,
the mother rested.

            Like him who came to us empty-handed,
who came, it seemed, with nothing,
Joseph Cornell—         making
a shoebox iniverse to put it all in.