Gradually, I will learn
to set aside blackbirds,
one by one, shut each
obsidian eye,
leave every bead
of humid dawn water
hanging suspended
in redolent cedar branches,
let the moon and the sun
collide and trade places
allow those tiger lilies to go on
purring in the dark—locked
away, one inside each of my
four heart chamber drawers.
The poem of the mind
is pure steady light;
no snow-
storms, zero love affairs.
The one undying gaze—which beholds
the source of the situation,
looks without urgency, sees
without interest.
Still, though—even about that, I have
to wonder.
