Too far up, into the sky, so that
the hills slip with the wash of
the quick brightness. What could the weather
shift, bu those changes of place?
Manganese on the brow;
the rich ore, clouds over
the stars, coming inshore-
all the power of our sentiment, what we
so feel, warming the inclusion, the shade.
Watch any road as it lies on the
seam of the earth, with that partly
turning & falling metaphysic:
we believe it even despite
the engineers. The power
is the wish to move, to recognise a
concealed flame in the evening
or dawn or whatever. The gleam
is history, desire for a night sky
during the day too, since
the stars circle the hills &
our motives without reproach.
The formal circuit is inclusion. The line runs
inflected but the shapes are blue & shining.
It is the orbit, tides, the fluctual spread,
we shiver with reason and with love:
the hills are omens, & the
weather how long, with
the stars, we can wait.
Or, it rains and the camber of the road
slips into it too-it's all there, as
the brickwork or hope for advice.
Write a letter, walk across the wet pavement,
the lines are taut with
strain, maybe they'll
snap soon. The explosion
is for all of us and I dedicate the results
to the fish of the sea and the purity of
language: the truth is sadder but who
would ask me to hope only for that?