I consulted with myself about it
Praying for and laboring after an awakening sense
This ghost chose my head to do its thinking in
A kind of arcadia where the painter puts light
On the water perfectly despite the tremors
Of the always filling never full sea
Or salt and absence of the backward glance


A certain quality of light in the air visible
For a day or two when spring finally opens
I look backward and become the pillar of salt
Apology looks back through itself to see
A snake in the grass the color of the grass
Or the garden hose swallowed by what it feeds
This strange rite of wanting to say something simple


Only to find my own image out ahead of me singing
A brittle pastoral grows supple as it goes blank
Wind gone but the grass bends over still blown
As sweetness falls away from what is sweet
And ‘this’ becomes a word that forgets what follows
Delirious judgment separating shadows from shades
A poppy just now full-blown and memory all this

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