When secreted between the times, for Present is that we Knew
Not always in our being now, but times through our features
show us back
As though meeting through themselves in me, asleep no more to
callings
And a friend to them, as god would be had he access to his
sel£hood
For we wander all too clearly through awareness, the forest lit
with marrow
The flavor of months obtrude the belly, a final mile deflates
it ...
A new sown breath suspends the sky, a cry gone out beyond
millions
Neither carries the wind, which slides through words so simply
Nor do we pursue the words, nor do we pursue the wind
But they this arid sense is joy, joy who spins a toiled sense
Often though it dreams, withered one languid day, alive
IV
Yet if that's true, other things could be truer, more still
And then stiller, as if there were more still of what does not fail
Nor in a measure where to, but one has hopes, squeamish hopes
That deter each rest, yet to the deeper makeup accrue a savor
Therein are we victim beyond our fear, and are cheerful that we
are so told
For every mode in which we cling ourselves is freer than our will
And certain things are here to riddle through the body and
excrete
Not sensually to share but cast from harm toward noone, final in
expulsion
Final until again, sapped of pleasing ruin, nor strong in
waiving pleasure
As certain things are just in food, there are minerals induced by
hunger
The lonely build inferior stairways to their whims, and wish
that they may
No compass steers them clear, but the very asking the way insists
darkness
It was a seeming pain where underneath was healing, a bruised
blue darling
