WALKING ALONG THE ROAD WE STOP NEAR A STREAM IN SPRINGTIME
You have found bits of song caught
In the spillway of a beaver dam. They
Are church-like in their praising. They shake
The collection of sticks
Piercing the face of the dam like so many
Bayonets. A rain begins and spills
Upon the surface of the pool, each drop a book,
A crowd, a child, a Golden Heart siging to the fools,
To what is left of the dancers, the poor shoulders
Of the river made to bear a cascade of tears.
They have built a monument on the edge
Of a cliff. It is impossible to get close enough
To look at it without plunging into the mind of God.
We stand watching the little fires in its towers,
The pitiful way it seems to contemplate the end
Of day. A vibrant eye peers from every window,
Some of them weep as only ones who have seen murder
Can weep. Ships send up flares to illuminate this place.
We walk along the edge of the pond where the grass
Grows tall and yellow. We stop and kiss each other
Before deciding to lie in this place and create
Another world, full of wings and the silence invented by snow.
We are unquenchable as acrobats before the highest throne.
House, knife, wonder, tears, cold, a flute,
Lambs, bridges, hills, the beautiful dark,
Silver bells opening like journeys, a crying,
Weaving a web around the heart that it may
Not break. All of the heavens resting
In the corners of your smile.
ONE HUNDRED POEMS
The way light eats the horizon.
The way Japanese ghosts
Have no feet. Birds gather
In the trees. They say things
To each other that we can hear
But are unable to understand.
A glass reflects the rising
Of the moon. Reading secret
Messages in the pattern of leaves
Upon the ground. There were
Pieces of conversation stuck to
His teeth. A great cultus of
Admonition flourished around
Any mention of the present tense.
The rafters were draped
With banners showing the most
Intimate secrets of the verb.
Landscape is spoken of only
In regard to feelings. There is
No middle distance. It becomes
Inevitable that dense conversation
Cover the face of the moon,
That night untie itself
From any reason and reduce
All poetry to whispers which
Remind one of the wind.
One hundred poems are written
At exactly the same moment.
They are mistaken for oceans,
And fished and thought of great
Depth. One crosses them
Full of wonder, lingering as long
As possible to watch
The waves, the shadow
Flight of birds across
Their sweet surface.