given that
The clouds
compel the sun
then glow on its behalf.
*
(The sky trembles
with the cry of noon
dawn till
twilight.)
*
Let the shadow
over the earth
fade; let, in the
coming day, the heart
of light and heat
the frenzy of flame
that orders
all
make itself
apparent.
*
Establishing
or so one trusts,
“the unity of appearance,”
establishing
or so one trusts the givenness of
“external perception”
of imagination and memory
of universals and
predicates, of
nonsense
and contradiction,
and nothing . . .
*
Of olives, of salt, of
a jostle of pepper.
*
Of the onion which, in
this new instance, is the sun.
(Around which all ingredients,
all spices, move.
The onion is a sun kept
hidden in the earth.)
*
There might be
a gratitude ready, now,
to be expressed.
Nothing ultimate,
nothing
operatic.
*
A gratefulness beyond
the everyday anywhere
of the mind where we are
talking more than listening
but needing at least the illusion
that we are if not spoken to,
beyond any last fantasy
of an answer, heard.
*
Beyond even those
perfections that never
come to an end, formerly
a foretaste of Paradise:
to be here, now,
in this quiet,
as sunlight falls
on the earth.
*
On an agonized planet, where the hole inside
a ravaged body has healed enough
that the excavation of
a living ruin can continue.
Now might every organ
be lifted out and cleaned,
be set back in its place
in an operation that
takes teams of doctors
18 hours to complete.
*
About to die, a prisoner is
exonerated. Having bequeathed
his possessions (even picked his
last meal) he is in need of wisdom.
Priest, imam, rabbi, prison ethicist,
tell me, can I ask for my things back?
Or must I stand by my decision
to give away all earthly possessions
even though the profoundly
urgent incentive to do so
has been withdrawn by a fate
known as the Innocence Project?
What then is the essence, what
are the attributes of the nothing
with which I must now live
when I return to the world?
*
Givenness of sense to the words in a dream
givenness of the brightness of the moon
and of the longest day of light
the earth will ever arrange for us,
of beings and objects and
Mt. Rainier becoming invisible.
Givenness of the sound of
unseen water, of light
after days of dark . . .
*
The other day the computer made a sound never heard before.
It went on and on. No one knew what to do.
One could believe all data
and the ability to transmit all data
was coming to an end.
It sounded as if the machine
was out to destroy itself, file by file,
circuit by circuit, until there was nothing left.
A deep sorrow took hold at
the passing away of knowledge
and at the loss of countless hours.
Then someone touched a key.
The noise stopped, a quick
assessment was made.
Joy came to all those there
at the word that nothing had been lost.
*
On the solstice, strings of
grey filament, the light of the sky
falls into the lake, the sky goes dark
then the moon appears, so huge,
as if to you alone, hungry as you are
to withdraw, to simplify, to focus
to strengthen your thought
to understand at long last
the relation of earth to sky.
The age of exploration is over
but the age of enlightenment
is about to begin; its waiting for you
to finish your meandering.
(Sit down at your desk.)
*
The moon would have lingered last night
but clouds tore it up and scattered
its light across the sky.
Next day, the trees all spoke
about it, downcast, shaking
their heads in disbelief.
The birds wondered where
the scraps of moonlight landed.
Was there some field or street
where the glow of night persisted
into day, or has this rain
dissolved it, so that it trickles
deep into the earth until
the time some passing comet
would call it to the surface,
damaged light, now healed.
*
All this is in regard to an
ever-receding time from which
so little that is coherent
has ever reached you.
*
Huge crows hop on the sidewalk.
You sip your wine secretly.
Your thought lightens, the
water keeps falling.
*
A theologian has said death
gives us the possibility
of impossibility. What is not
is not simply nonexistent,
he said, but is given to us
in its nonexistence.
*
The dandelions in the shade
of the shed have yet to unfold.
The petals are drawn up in peaks
of yellow, while in the full of
first sun, those rooted there
have opened, have found
where radiance is, and lean
towards it, offering it back
its own image, a yard full or
yellow stars, after days of rain.
High wisdom from a low weed,
that mirror for the miracle of
a roaring in the sky, that
inextinguishable wonder.
So, too, the air which mediates
a glory that would destroy us.
Once again we return to
the jewel of dew on the grass.
Having achieved perfection
the dew forsakes its form
and flies up into the coming
kingdom of warmth that
seems to be arriving, now
a kingdom no longer
capable of being denied.
A patch of yellow flowers
are gathered, they are ready
for the fullness of the light to be.
