A child I became a question

sitting on the grass.

To be told how lucky I am.

An open field.

This corporeal expanse

was a body too

in silver magnetism.

If I became this light

it wasn't luck. It was easy.

Bells falling away

along the divide of night.

Along the divide of night

an old face. A sorry dormer

leaning in askew

below the incoming thunder.

This was true and even if ever

I ran away. I ran

away. Above everything

I held one true thing.

This scene moved through me,

a seesaw. A picture

inside a question inside

the coming night.

Surprise. These trees rang

round my head, shored

up the sky. I went on

and on like a trial balloon

over the houses. Over

the roofs. Over my head.


To remember correctly

the color of the pale grass in March,

its salt hay blonde flourish.

To see it as it was,

faded cloth, mute trumpet,

the seam inside a day

the sun climbs.

Simple the life of the mind

standing outside in the grass

in March. Outside memory.

Spring interrupts

one cardinal monody

transmuted by a signal red

developed against

a draining blue horizon.

To want to go there

and to have been there

and to be there now.

Simple, this walking right now

by a river and not so clear

when transcribing this

unstable multiplying narrative spring.

It can't be called anything.

We too are sprung and wound

with evolution, I want to say.

That's it: love. Not spring.

I have felt it also

10 〈 jubilat

in quilted drowning snow

under the sheets

in a clanking house.

Clank, I love you.

Clank. Not spring.

Glossy grass wigging

in a brightening sky.

The thrill of hair

standing on my limbs.


To be and not to understand.

To understand nothing

and be content

to watch light against

leaf-shadowed ground.

To accept the ground.

To go to it as a question.

To open up the day inside the day,

a bubble holding air

bending the vista to it.

To be inside this thing,

outside in the grass place,

out in the day

inside another thing.