Islands

I imagine, beyond fog, a sea of islands, Grave with the celebrations of the young Learning responsible voice, who naked stand, Shafts of clear being, in the wind's repose.

I imagine, clothed in pattern, a free land Of equal gifts, where the increasing tree Affords its nourishment gladly, in ripe wisdom, And is made sacred by the accepting hand.

How in that place of known formalities, Those accurate islands sheathed in harmonious sea, The purposes of occasion daily quicken To the center of the fruit, to the bright seed.

I imagine, beyond the promiscuous water That sucks at my step, beyond the driftwood-smeared State of these tides, a community of islands, Where the vein's pulse under the hiding skin is bared

And the body stands free of catchments, in its own song Reserved, answering its attendant parts, Tree, town and shoal, tuned to their understanding. I imagine the grace given the silken young

To accept their blood as an interior music Of laws, as they accept the flowering tree That wills to live with decorum in those islands In its own sureness of its relevancy.