The shifting of light across the surface of any lake,
deer carrying their vulnerable bodies with such dignity,
monarchs weighing down each cluster of goldenrod
there where the sky is knitted to the field,
a huge moth, white-winged, full of grace,
blackbirds flying through wind-driven snow
in a kind of trance,
fire curling toward me, wood smoke,
the musty-ripe smells of the marsh,
the memory of lilacs.
Sounds that seemed to be the shape of the trees themselves,
the forest with its wing sounds,
a brook loosening from April,
its gravelly soft-talk
a piano casting its notes,
the chords of music arriving in my ear,
the distance ringing with bells,
someone calling from a rooftop,
children, voices overlapping
saying who knows what.
The world’s all sound, the lulling tongues.
A wave from a doorway,
waving from the dock as the ferry pulled out,
the satin of water
dahlias bending under the rain,
to lean against the trees,
seduction, the solace of his body
whose name fills my mouth,
the suitcases of the heart,
losing ourselves in truth and beauty,
a wild surrender.
The oiled tarp of night
when the river darkens—wild silver to black,
trees transformed into silhouettes,
the weight of shadows,
ones’ weight in my pockets.
Memory, an unopened closet, a red ribbon:
the love of books,
the mythology we recite against the dark,
my shadowy dream world,
more than I can imagine.
I believe in questions,
a feeling of usefulness,
the door to the room beyond this room
where all that has happened can fall away,
the hanging gardens of the wind,
the body wants to be lifted.
I believe everything’s connected,
everything’s a paradox.
Let us dance together down the dark sand
of blue brokenness,
waiting for something to arrive.
Love is the mouth and the cry that comes out of it—
the map of this world.
Three red horses
