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...