we climbed down
to the birthplace of water
bloodroot
wild ginger
sang
roots stretched into crevasses
limestoned voices
inaudible over
the gasp & suck
a scum of flotsam in the gullet
we crouched in the sun
blood-colored flowers
whitewater curling back
& back we prayed
for a rain of calcium
another sky opened
All the assistance I could expect:
the sound of an evening,
a large desire for
my old friend, the world.
Nature is the first lie
since coming from sea.
I went to the well to see
the king touch people
for the king’s evil.
The poor people stand
all morning in the rain,
the wind in the corn
changing all remembrance
into country.
Organs play for the moss in the garden,
the great beauty walks to cook:
my Zen.
As a tavern with my money
or will and a bull,
winter had the oak.
Me: my extreme business.
I see my father, that wit,
the war with chance.
My lord Me, we turn.
When a land is new
every man goes
as if at dinner.
Cast up
I believe no sea
besides the ship’s.
I hear the wind speak:
nothing but epitaph,
brass angels crying.
The church, a poor man’s box
that binds any guest
to the dying light
like some great weight.
I go down to the water
with my echo:
to say is to know.
Boy in the bay, stay
and understand:
letters only attend
the coming of a sail.
Midway, we could see
places very pleasant;
the further we went,
the more we lost sight.
At cards, I come to see
my fruitless precaution,
getting without book
when I can get the book.
A strange thing, how every day
I am private eye for a statue,
set up in exchange after I fell
to writing, to morrow, to bed.
My window was infinite as a ring.
My head ached.
Sitting backwards, I heard a dove
speak with the day.
A great burr did vex me in my hose.
A dove came on board whom
I do not know; it came to go.
I wrap myself up in a dry sheet.