Clings to the sun. It lands,
93 million miles away, or
3 billion miles, on ammonia strands.
People who have a dynamo should know
Themselves. They are the waterfall,
They are the river, the tributaries.
And when they stumble and they sprawl,
They suffer. How else would the moss
Be moistened? And here the air
Is easier on the lungs, the altitude
Is not so crystal sharp and bare.
This comfort is blank, its softness vague,
Chaos. They really find a place to rest
Slung alongside the cliff, where peace
Seeps from the sun and the bramble nest.
Here you can move in any direction,
You are outlined in electricity,
Here there is no longer green or yellow
No stone wall, no boundary,
No thoughts, no visions, filled
With subtle sweetness, a scent
A melody a murmur a singing
A sussurus a stream a merriment
A fullness of love of terror
A vertigo a clarity of mind,
A sure step, a knowledge what to do,
A mountain highway serpentined,
A burst of treetops, clinging bushes,
A love for every turtle and snail,
The honor of the crow, the upswept
Cloud, the carvings on the trail,
The fields are saturated green,
They raise a mist, it settles, it burns
Off, something finer, then, silent,
The storks, the dirt road, the ferns.