​Among the forgotten things, from Kung to Dunung
From vapor to chaos, from generations
Wrinkled, shrunken, from the deep black
Crevices, rises steam in bright gyrations,

Rising with a thready constitution, 
A structure luminous, a limelight,
A pleasant glow racing to the horizon,
Over a perfect city, a lucent meteorite,

A light that shouts fair names,
A sweetness in the dark, a tang
Of a forgotten park, a throne,
A murmur of a song that father sang.

​I remembered, I forgot, and out of that
Came me, because all good things come
To the fore, and the smudging blurs 
Are erased, leaving clear the cranium,

And our whole human memory, from caves
And savannahs, from leaves large as dinner
Plates, comes from the prophets,
From the saint and from the muleskinner,

And its the erasing of the old lines,
The old fences, the old dark spots
In the uncertain underbrush, that leave
The clear sky and forget-me-nots.

And sometimes a cloudy wind or
A dust dry sirocco shrouds the hill,
Until the north wind blows and brings
Pellucid light that limns the domicile.

​When you’re coming back to life, 
You bring the vibes of Cockle Creek Road,
The curve of the bay, the huddling trees,
And the sound of the wind is a ceaseless code

Of the words of your soul. You light 
Matches, you burn wicks, and
You do not see the light of the sun in the west.
And one day that light will shine through your hand,

Will shine in your chest and your legs,
And as you walk on the road, you’ll find
That your own light was so small, 
And you walk in a light that is so kind

That is so stern that is so deep,
Lights that dance on the gravel
Of the road, that float in the evening
Lavender, that slowly loosen to unravel.

​The desire to say a word--
She tumbled down from the bales
In the barn. She knocked—Hello?
The yellow perch frisked in the pails,

Trailing histories ghosts and souls,
Twisting into letter shapes,
Hello? They knock speak, speak,
From the floor, from the bottom of the drapes,

And the words, they rush they flow
They gush down the furrow, and
The vegetables grow, a profusion
Of leaves, tomatoes, squash, planned and unplanned,

The water ringing, the rain bears down,
It beats upon the rills,
And the fields stretch out, and the leaves glisten,
Until they rise into the teeming hills.

​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.