In a place
                you left behind
                                       your mind
to walk away
                  in the distance
                                        day-old snow
An orange source
                        floats in glass
                                            Where did you
could you go?
                There is no middle
                                         to the sky,
no inland sea. 
                     The parish of the
                                          “co-inherence
of being in being”
                        is only of divine
                                                and human regard.
Time will turn you
                        outside-in
                                       like cabbage hearing
a so-and-so
                   coldness arrives
                                          thus drawing to a point
like a loaded brush
                        rubbery tips of leaves—
                                                       They tell us
night
            a sensitive aggression
                                     must be imagined,
the wilderness
                        made for it
                                          inwardly.

The mind is a guest.
It roams the halls in identical mirrors
where walls merge, collapse and grow.
By now you know Giuliana. She is
                         beautiful, her wide brow
eyes like the sphinx’s
                        held down to their base with severity,
a possession really
                             of their twin and deficient beauty.
There is something terrible
about reality, and I don’t know she says
what it is. No one will tell me.
                                              But that very fact
that no one can tell
                              or will
                                           is what is terrible
and to know this
                        truthfully speaking
                                                         I desire it
more than any man
                          or woman I could
                                                   for poetry give up
anything
 

for life  (never before
                          gone this way
                                                opens like
a field
            ran through
                                 the heart: it roams
like the ray
             and from the pony’s dance
                                                into a lifted leg
steps.
            Have you seen
                                    the white harbor, pulling in
the water and the sun?
                                Look down:
                                                your legs are curling        
into disappearance.
                        The diver tucks
                                                drops and unfolds 
exposes to us the
                         vertical,
                                       a second. The window
is here and there
                        one picture now
                                                two from outside
the mind:
               sheets of snow
                                        They fly