1717
Because the wind is high
I ache to breathe in the space between
What sees and what is seen,
As if all time were stopping there,
As if an earth were sky
That choked fictitious emotion.
1716
1715
1714
1713
1712
As a lace of marble
Unworn by years
Signs grace and fluid stillness
To an eye that yearns,
So once there is a way
To show what is hidden
Will art know its reflection,
If it be to reflect.
1711
1710
1709
1708
1707
The concept of an hour
Unmakes and makes a time
To be, and gone,
In a seeming arc
Of identity.
But catch an instant
To its next and last,
Then unnaratived spring my motions,
And my body both thought's vessel
And manifestation.
What whole is not a part
Of some still greater art?
1706
1705
1704
1703
1702
1701
1700
1699
1698
Enwheel this moment
Of evening light
Round with memory,
To stay what must go:
Moon, sky,
And answering shadow;
Stay this season of embracing sense,
By these tokens engendered;
For I feel the millrace of hours,
That wants no perception to run its course.
1697
1696
1695
1694
1693
1692
1691
Heard the low piano in the empty rooms
Like a church of my interior
Where every breath's symbolic,
And present sacrament
And rite of nothing.
Though another press the key,
There will be silence when I go.
1690
Not by a slant light caught,
But read through a sieve of years
That patterns obliquity;
An angle and an aspect,
Eye, face,
From first remembered to this many last,
Approximates a love in time.
1689
1688
1687
1686
(artist: Kevin McDowell)
1685
1684
1682
1681
Vicinal to these shapes,
The blocks of occluded sun
Rigid with fractal precision
In the parking lot,
Stood the early shoppers,
Disguised in the wan futurity
Of contemplated addition,
That at the fore-grasped moment
Uncloaks the present self,
Impotent to make this without within.
Over-rising the blacktop
The heated air skims a hawk across,
Her being her seeking.
1680
1679
1678
1677
1676
A certain levity
Is condign
In a normal situation:
The jest is to be such,
As finite as a worm
In his cube of common earth,
Tasting perpetuity
In a knot of soil.
1675
1674
1671
I am complicit in humanity's
Dark within,
Yet justly breath the air;
Where self and selfless is,
I am;
In the organic volume
To a signature sewn,
That holds every thing and thought,
We are;
In a wordless vastness:
From this star to the farthest
Lies only in the mind,
And exquisite mathematics.
To here apportion cause
Is wonderful seriousness,
Else a faith in a place without measure.
