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...oh that saving intoxication i take a running start and jump off a mound and fly into the hedge of herons and they meet me with tender nips...
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Homes fill with vases sputtering marigold orange
As days grow shorter, there is nothing to be done –
The young men sing, titmice twitter over graves
And the shells of urns fill up with your friends
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I’ve been learning how to be human from the rain
from the southern wind
and from the fog
that beautiful fog
in the grasses along the shore
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so what’s the worry? impossible, i say
time does not think about that.
the river flows under your bridge,
the police are almost on vacation,
god rides a spaceship from mars.
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Descartes and I did not exactly chime,
but loved ones denied me many times
like some proof insufficient for belief.
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my muscles will ache and I'll remember what it means to dream
those gentle slow days
smeared in unctuous dreams
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Once I had a compass, a tailwind, a cross breeze
but now my home is empty-handed except for me.
Only when the sun goes down and the audience
returns to its own element, sated and benign in its
dream of me, do I have a chance for mine.
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the people all asleep
and streets and squares have grown quiet
in the mobile cranes of words
in the ship-holds of poems
in a baltic mouth breathing
the northern lights’ cold
