To follow the drops sliding from a lifting oar, Head up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward...
I wish I could find an event that meant as much as simple seeing.
Time marks us while we are marking time.
I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart of form.
In this place of light: he dares to live Who stops being a bird, yet beats his wings Against the immense immeasurable emptiness of things.
I bleed my bones, their marrow to bestowUpon that God who knows what I would know.
The darkness has it’s own light.
Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt keeps breathing a small breath.
A lively understandable spirit Once entertained you. It will come again. Be still. Wait.
All lovers live by longing, and endure: Summon a vision and declare it pure.
Pain wanders through my bones like a lost fire.
The visible exhausts me. I am dissolved in shadow.
You must believe: a poem is a holy thing – a good poem, that is. The poem, even a short time after being written, seems no miracle; unwritten, it seems something beyond the capacity of the gods.
I learned not to fear infinity, The far field, the windy cliffs of forever, The dying of time in the white light of tomorrow, The wheel turning away from itself, The sprawl of the wave, The on-coming water.
Should we say the self, once perceived, becomes the soul?
And I walked, I walked through the light air; I moved with the morning.
What’s important? That which is dug out of books, or out of the guts?
In the kingdom of bang and blab.
How terrible the need for God.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?