​I look at white light with smoky lenses.
But smoke is not white. And the more I see smoke
The less I see white. And the sun is 93
Million miles away, it feeds the oak,

It lays a sheet of golden light 
Across Lapland, it pings off a snowy slope,
And all I see is lies and smoke,
I am kept upright my my gyroscope,

And through the smoke I see the sun,
And its rays soothe my rigid mind,
Absolutely, what I see, absolutely, what I am,
Truth and kindness bright and twined.

​The flow of light swamps the soul,
It remains white and roaring,
We hear voices, but we don’t hear words,
The fog muffles the boat at the mooring.

And all we have are feelings 
About sky, about longing, about fall,
Then a mist, a drizzle, a patter,
And the fog is whipped aside in the squawl.

​Like an entire beach
Of sleeping figures,
Sometimes just you, one
Folk, overcome by rigors,

Feel faint. Being 
Spiritual, you fill
Your spiritual wheels,
You caulk your spiritual domicile.

Instead, feed your body,
Tweak, oil your muscle
(In the pre-New Year cool,
The drying leaves rustle),

And your spirit will arise,
Clap its hands, blink its eyes,
Filled with light and life,
Take the world by surprise,

Run the beach, the whole affair,
Put everything in proper order,
Arrange the meetings, set the chairs,
And fix the crossings at the border,

As light streams gleaming
In the aisles, sweet
And confident, and you sing upon
A sun-bleached city street.

​Only something clean can stop
The burning of trash--a breath
Of a child, a mind that
Does not know about death,

Only that mind, only
Its words, its linen and silk,
Fill the air with violets,
And the bowl with sweet milk.

​A highrise apartment
Made of air. Its foundation
Is sizzling electricity,
It strikes each deformation,

As though a king lives there,
Intolerant and raw,
Striking down pretenders
With the excuse of law,

The wind that swoops
Down from the stratosphere,
That lifts the dust, that stirs
The wavelets round the pier,

Clear the air until
The eyes are bright, 
Until it may be read
By the slightest acolyte

​An intensity that doesn’t
Pause for everything concealed,
For every trace noble,
And astronomical field,

A land that is straight with 
God, strength, a grain,
Inside, in a field weak
And unweeded, a lane,

Alight at the top of
The stairs, a text
On the landing, filled
With song, indexed

With muscle and with
An intellect that shines,
A clarity, land of yellow
Grapes upon the dusty vines.  

​Every soul, great and small,
Stands in its own light,
Neuron upon neuron,
Synapse upon dendrite,

The ones who are small,
Dim and black, muted
And weak, obscure,
And how they are transmuted,

How they are raised
From the rotting straw
By the light of kindness,
On a street dappled in awe,

Because of those whose words
Rise to the heaven of manna,
And dew beads upon leaves
And roots drink from the Susquehanna.

Who says, “My words rise”?
And his bones tremble,
He is not afraid, it is true,
God will not allow him to dissemble.

​A holy fire, heat
Baking inside, along hot
Wire veins, a yearning 
Blaze in every hollow and knot,

A gift of fire, a burning altar,
A spilling of orange coals
Across a psalter, igniting
The valleys and knolls,

Following the movments
Of the wildcat, the supple sway,
The deep eyes, the free mind,
The night of eyes at midday,

The heart is glad, it beats
In the grasses, in the mud
Along the river where the snipe
Rejoice along the fertile flood.

​Inside me, perhaps
The axilla, a node
Or capillary, is a row
Of fir trees, a road

Curving up a hill, 
Shining under the weak
Light behind a blur
Of clouds, pale, oblique,

The light turns firm,
More sure, more warm,
Our steps are slow,
The shrubs, the gravel uniform,

Sometimes there is a snap,
Lightning crinkles, disappears,
A cold rain wakes us up,
Hisses and grumbles in our ears.

​There are prayers carved
Into shapeless lumps, or
Carved with broken noses and 
Jaws swollen with the mumps.

They sit upon and crack
The chair where all of our
Souls sit. Pure, Divine
Thoughts and feelings scour

The continents, decency
Pervades, thoughts wear
Tuxedos or bolo ties,
And we lift in the air.

But in these images of air,
We carve out of focus hands,
Eyes, creatures hard to identify,
With sorrowful, chestnut bands,

They confuse the sky with
Curlicues and shadows, until
A chill, wet wind whips,
Clouds crackle, a soul grows ill,

The sea heaves gray and green,
Vertiginous and driving rain,
No sky, no horizon,
A dissolution on the windowpane,

And the light grows dim,
The stars twist into smoking
Wisps, the sun is a dull
Thumbprint, the croaking

Of the swinging pasture gate,
The child left on the porch,
The old man lying in bed,
The mother in the woods with a torch,

Until the light will come and
Turn the texture of the dark
And the blind can see
And walk in the gold-green park.