How long they ask, we ask, it
is the question. So much time to
travel or stop and yet the heart
is so slow & reluctant
leave it, that's one
way- there, on the
ground. I love you
so, here but how long again, the
history of what we allow, are per-
mitted to have. A life for this
branch, dividing in the headlights
waiting, the beam in
prism, play or the sound
in a great arc for the
world, it is an open fire, a hearth
stone for the condition of trust.
Don't ever wait for that. Twist it
out, in ply and then run, for
the door: we must
have the divine sense,
of entrance. The way
in as what it is, not which then, or
how long as the question. Such things
are, the world that is fire, it burns
along all the horizons. It is
the heart, Where we
are. I love you, so
much. As this, as
this, which is for even more than I
could tell. The night flickers and
the day comes; has, will come. That's
the question, the mark strapped to
the hands; not the
eyes. Trust them, the
fire of the mind, lust
of the pure citizen, on every path
of the earth. The soil, tarmac, gra**,
remorse, the sea, love is in the air
we breathe. Fire on the hearth. The life
in what I now have
and listen to, just so
long, as we are.