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Theodore Roethke

I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones, I feel it,— The small waters seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet. —Theodore Roethke, from “Cuttings (later),” The Lost Son and Other Poems (Doubleday, 1948)

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