from Book of Hours

The light here leaves you

lonely, fading

as does the dusk

that takes too long

to arrive. By morning

the mountain moving

a bit closer to the sun.

This valley belongs

to no one—

except birds who name

themselves by their songs

in the dawn.

What good

are wishes, if they aren't

used up

The lamp of your arms.

The brightest

blue beneath the clouds—

We guess

at what's next

unlike the mountain

who knows it

in the bones, a music

too high

to scale.

*       *       *

The burnt,

blurred world

where does it end—

The wind

kicks up the scent

from the stables

where horseshoes hold

not just luck, but

beyond. But

weight. But a body

that itself burns,

begs to run.

The gondola quits just

past the clouds.

The telephone poles

tall crosses in the road.

Let us go

each, into the valley—

turn ourselves

& our hairshirts

inside out, let the world

itch—for once—

*       *       *

Black like an eye

bruised night brightens

by morning, yellow

then grey—

a memory.

What the light was like.

All day the heat a heavy,

colored coat.

I want to lie

down like the lamb—

down & down

till gone—

shorn of its wool.

The cool

of setting & rising

in this valley,

the canyon between us

shoulders our echoes.

Moan, & make way.

*       *       *

The sun's small fury

feeds me.

Wind dying down.

We delay, & dither

then are lifted

into it, brightness

all about—

O setting.

O the music

as we soar

is small, yet sating.

What you want—

Nobody, or nothing

fills our short journeying.

Above even the birds,

winging heavenward,

the world is hard

to leave behind

or land against—

must end.

I mean to make it.

Turning slow beneath

our feet,

finding sun, seen

from above,

this world looks

like us—mostly

salt, dark water.

*       *       *

It's death there

is no cure for

life the long

disease.

If we're lucky.

Otherwise, short

trip beyond.

And below.

Noon,

growing shadow.

I chase the quiet

round the house.

Soon the sound—

wind wills

its way against

the panes. Welcome

the rain.

Welcome

the moon's squinting

into space.

The trees

bow like priests.

The storm lifts

up the leaves.

Why not sing.