“
Now reading
Morning Mists
And flow. The heart shaking its bells and the witless
nodding-
He must trickle on through some plan punched out.
Unknowable, but there to recognize, icy and written large
More thickets criss-crossed
With dreams and journeys
Resembling each other.
The light here brief, entangling
And no one native;
The design unknown,
Repeating;
Birds lit over water,
The dark before rain.
UNBORN
For Ann, The Believer
Did we count unborn,
Among the missing, so to speak?
The threshold of that stillness
We were pushed from
Worn down
Like the heel of an old shoe
Shorn of the soft black sorrows
That feathered us,
Sent down to be broken,
Motherlove leaking on the rocks
Sent out after birds and defeats
That seem to repeat
The cupping of our hands
Certain of little save that
Those lights revolving in the wheat
Will encircle us...