vine spread
on that wall
invisible years birds
fly
the earth need
motion
a dial of wind forms
roars a little some cat
wavering
or fitful reflection
branches through rain
from a lightening sky
the clouds parade
no army
there is no time
no vision that presses
Stirring up dirt
I throw my leg
Over the motorcycle
And hang on
Down grizzly peak we hit air
pockets of plum blossom and pine
Henry turns back and shouts to me
I shout yes I shout yes
'cause I didn't hear him
My leg stinging with wind
Where I burned it on tailpipe.
But if you come up to it,
even if you tend it with
love and care, it will
still grow into a tree,
a jungle,a hive,
and your hand near upon it
will not be the same forth.
There is no recourse to love,
for all you do will
thrive in you in that same way,
and what you put out,
will grow round you,
and the wind will at last
whistle your lips.
Now we have started
to come back,
the fast is longing.
the light of cast foreshadows all else.
We are bent upon it,upon the way.
There isn't enough light until we bring ourselves
Say it only once,that you may know.
Still
There isn't enough light until we bring ourselves
For caught up in the wind,
we stand before,
we have knelt that way
And
There isn't enough light until we bring ourselves.
wander me lonely
in last chance
wind
give me half
the faded
thistle
blown where scattered
to know
return
and gently
circle
a tree
its leaning.
you will come today
tomorrow
I hold a wet finger
to the wind
How to understand things you have names for?
Shot at on the beaches of Rhode Island.
Sounds upstairs, Ron's radio, door half open,
the woman in a window walking back and forth,
noise of the fireplace. Flies in the center of the
room, bare trees, houses on which earlier a man
in yellow slicker fixed an antenna, strong wind
and waves, a single pole in the bay.
Traces of heaven, lines of the earth.
during the past few months become monastic
content. this
unseemly phase
is im sure a function
of space
of having only the weather
to contend with
& i embrace it & hang the bells
i make of its wind
over your side of the bed
Floodtide sinks the sandbar.
Only waves faltering out of rhythm
show where it was.
Currents gnaw debris free from banks
for burial in the black mud of the marsh.
Idling in the pentacle of an old army tent
I would have the green heat speak
of why it flows so close under the earth,
making my shadow blur.
But the wind rising is enough, all afternoon
it has me
thinking what a wind thinks
miles past land.
A roughcut logging trail
digs into underbrush climbs a hill
breaks into a clearing fast on swampwater
Hot wind maims scrub
feints at bracken tussock, pickerel weed'
hugging ditches
Three hawks in tandem
wheel
are
fibering air
In brown murk: the silt planes down
script of larva
blistering mud
Breath nears fever
halts altogether
as the surface
Wednesday Morning
The cold air piercing my lungs
The copper-coloured leaves,
As kamikaze pilots,
Plummer into the green sea.
The moon,
Why are you out?
You come without warning
To watch over us
Here one minute, gone in another.
The iced autumn winds
Prickling,
Tingling at my bare limbs
Asserting its presence.
The sunlight tickling,
Teasing,
WHOOSH!
A tiny gust of wind starts its travels.
It blows past the park,
picking up more wind as it goes.
It blows past houses and office buildings,
markets and schoolhouses.
It blows past a man,
and picks up his hat.
It plays with the hat,
then drops it back onto the man.
It plays around,
but blows to close to a set of doors.
The doors open,
and he disappears inside with a
WHOOSH!