Always who turns is more than
the same, being in desire the pivot
of what he would most want: or
the point of fact, they say,
driving through the
early morning, to go to it.
And this is true, therefore, in such sense
as the light will allow. We take leave
of it, in the prospect of being allowed, on
as the rocks are, the folds
let into the saddle, cut down
to any hope, acquired
All the rage of the heart reaches this lifted
point, then: a fashion of spirit: a made thing.
For this there is no name but the event,
of its leaving. There is no
lattice, we don't sit by
the traffic lights bathing
the soul in the links of time. The place
rises, as a point of change. There are
rocks and trees as part of it, none in
forms of evidence. Within
limits this arena is
where each one is allowed
to be: the movement to be found, in the
distance is the sound that I too hope for,
here at the rock point, of the world.