Here the days don’t dissolve in air
they fall into the water
shaping their own shell
a sheen of separation.
A hawk flies over summer’s body
diving again, again
feeding and drunk from the fall.
There’s nothing here
but manic wind alone and stones
and sea
a senseless promise
sharpens our lust with the moon’s blade.
Often, in the Repose of Evening her soul took a lightness from
the mountains across, although the day was harsh and
tomorrow foreign.
But, when it darkened well and out came the priest’s hand over
the little garden of the dead, She
Alone, Standing, with the few domestics of the night – the blowing
rosemary and the murmur of smoke from the kilns –
at sea’s entry, wakeful
Otherly beauty!
Continue reading “Beauty and the Illiterate”
