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Like a dog
the house shakes itself awake,
the premises present
Once more, of the sailing ponds
and the long straight irrigation;
and the gossamer threads,
Their flights like a dew
arrowing in the sunlight;
fast as I awaken
The flying sages
soar back to heaven. . .
There is a storm coming,
As a spider breaks
her bed before bad weather
I slam doors before the storm
And shout at myself
in the innocent mirrors,
howl at the innocent mirrors
And at the miasmas that are arriving. . .
the hot air strokes the seeds
In the little grass-summer
of the day’s beginning,
and they ache for rain;
The cat sneezes
delicately as a debutante;
the autumn arrives
In all the gardens at once
in the weather-rockeries
that change hue
As the seaweed alters in the landlady’s hall
of the house where I have
such innocent thoughts about you. . .
The fractures of ore
are dreaming in each boulder;
heavy rains rise
And mysteriously fall
out of the thinnest cloud
as though everything
Desired to grow heavy
as rock; and in the fissures
of the black rock-garden
Lightning; in these granite stones
there is a quiver
of fluorescence as the ghosts
Of storm pass
freely into the stones
and out again;
Robing the stones the mists
pile up in the morning; the sages
of the lawns arrive
And stand, willing grass
out of ghost,
having made rock
Out of ghost.
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