I am all his hope needs to be embraced,
and the morning exerts its clearest rays
to lift a cry after the scattered birds;
and if, below their wings, time must be kept,
Paradise is the time our bodies keep.
ANNE ATIK
Spring Song
Up in the hills
aHa aHa
pointing his finger
aHa HA HA
the echo comes
o
AIR
o
AIR
then comes the answer
o
AIR
o
HERE
No questions. Breath quicker.
No fax phone chance-or-planned meeting;
Far from sleeping waking from time-keeping;
And from what time is it. And Where Wednesday Five.
Here. Navy blue with cello.
What time is it? Rhapsody. Live.
Bearing, dying, farewell, hail.
So he's for air and he's for un–
hi storical air
not air that clings
to antique gold, Pilate's dredged-up stone,
Napoleon's hose.
And he'll have none of it, none.
