Donald Revell For Lucie That would be bread. That would be a table. This is death, but it moves Only one way; And so the bread escapes, And the table along with it, Easily—as easily As water spilled from a cup All over the ground. Now that I come to it, Why agree to it? Every quarter of the wind is bread. Every blade of grass is a table. We are walking beside deer through a halo. about Donald Revell