did not see the first stork of the Spring
in the limitless blue sky,
a new poem in its beak
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It’s in a quiet corner to itself
Italian Renaissance gallery, soyou can stand undisturbed to wonderjust what’s going on?A small painting: in a peacefulgreen and hilly summer countryside,not a soul in sight exceptthese three – children? – their faces undertheir hoodies seem known to each otherbut shadowed, small, not asking to beknown to us; absorbed, maybe learning, andthey’re enacting, in this remote…
Lord – if that is how
that stranger, you –I – or one resembling I –have done so many actionswhich the world would classifyas crimes, or sins, according asthe one who classified them might believe…and in the classifications whichmen attribute boldly to that presumed you,there must be crimes or sins which are unnamedwhich I have done; good left undone…indeed, your devotees…
where the unlimited meets the limited,
where the unseen meets the seen,and the eye meets the heart;where the earth meets the seed,and the seed meets the root;where the root meets the earth;and the flower meets the air;where the heart meets the thought,and the thought meets the sound;where the sound meets the word;and the word meets the voice;where joy arises,and where sorrow…
I am growing old,
I should stop wearing surfing shortsbelow my belly fold.
kick aside that rat as you charge
of your dead mate whom you’ve no time to bury
Delicate, so frail now, almost
like the longtime bed-boundtaking their first unaccompanied walk,hardly able to believe their fortune, onthis unexpected day of sunlightoffering hope to weakest winter body –yet exploratory, determined, intheir frailty; invisibly heroic –the tendrils of the jasmine explore,survey with vegetable mind, the frontiers of the empire whichthey plan to flood with scent some secrettime ahead; how can…