the rhythms and the vehicle
go on, and just when you've thought it
all out, knowing somewhere the time
is almost up, destination
almost stopped, the desert field stands
in front, beside, the decision
has come to an end. then, lightened,
you descend, greet the friends who look
nearly the same, and in their light
intrepid exciting new place
almost forget that you travel.
light and dark alone are waste.
snow drifts through all the parted streets
where in the cloudshine atoms meet
and whirl along a pearly space
your hands are in the parallel
of separated beams that lie
falling upon the dusk, the light
of streetlamps, falling where snow falls.
and we live in the play of dark
fastening cold to circling cold
that no sun's light embrace could hold
or fuse in any brilliant spark
and in this whirling of our fears
the beam within the fall of snow
and all the dark around still grow
luminous with the salt of tears.
rhododendron
is a tree here.
stand like a leaf.
back yards plummet
to Italy
and domestic
waters reflect
Swiss precision
in blue Cascades.
cedars drop nine
