The rain lets up.
A pileated woodpecker
hammers on my house.
Autumn for the trees
is a second springtime
for the rocks.
Four parallel lines
on the maple log
where the bear thought better of it.
This fall, once again,
I’m shocked to see how much the leaves
had managed to hide.
like blocking up the river
with one hand
we so believe
in wondrous little hopes
that we keep this other world
for God or bed
a barrel full of stinking water
on a barge going
to a new ship
I have translated my life in three lines
touching wood
I believe and do not believe
the day I met a bear
the doors were open
and the road was gone
I believe but cannot believe
that I will die
to pass time I read history
so much is ours without us
art is our best wing
uncomfortable
as hanging by the neck
one house very handsomely done
was so like a thought
I returned home
I teach my ear
not to understand sounds
and that way to learn
just as the dead
receive their legacy
of moth and fur
Loud at first, the rain
grows quieter by the hour
on a hillside deep
in fallen leaves.
this mind of a child
may I be ever thankful for it
at noon and at midnight
making things to my content
out of found carcasses
which quite overthrow
how I believe I have to see
a bridge over the bridge
I walk with my accounts
settling in my chest
water in the road
the rains carry me home
a rose becomes a good answer
to a crooked chimney
the weather in a tear
is like a chamber full of ice
but weather is only weather
ordinary clothes not fur
I shall confine myself to my chamber
which I find very clear
my cassock is doubt
I profess no light
or nature or other
false way out
death is the one
king of the faithful
but I serve you
my little books
my instruments and other
fine things
falcon in a birch
the nakedness
of the world