—on a mountain top in summer
wood splitting on a finished tree, —
ridges of the swirls in a mirrorless day,
tall ants nearby—, twin sides of alive: so pattern recalls
how to cling volute, contingent,
as the dying breath could cling, obstinate, to texture,
needing more information, or if the sentence,
swings on the imperfect hearer, risking leaving
the close days without fear—;
as the sentence leaves its breath, in the warmth
no matter what: things you said about the things
you said, wanting the written life, a phrase striving
for nothing spoken among the rats & hawks
& spirits on the hill, the spiral ear of wind,
in the space of the circular where sounds go,
impossible, intense, inner— existence
loved more in the common zones, brief
stop in each, as one man prays not terrible prayers,
silences to each, an act to prefer;
so the sentence leaves the word,
clinging to a group of dawns— a swirl on wood
reaching in the air—this unlikely thought,
to know or stay, to say so long,
infinite home:— now you must be everyone—