lxxviii.

with kindness--the gravel creaks
the gate sharp,

the night is coming soft,
--too slow

lxxvi.

I watch the pines, but they do not answer

I swear the night is smooth, like butter

they stand above me, full but not solemn
wavering gently, the stars glittering behind them

it will be a long time before I find a night as peaceful as this

whatever god watches over wandering scholars, watch over me

lxxv

love is neither owning nor belonging
who holds space in himself for the existence of another
finds a room for himself, held within another
loves, is loved

lxxxiv.

the birch haloed by the late light
twists and bows,

I will kneel, for a moment

the carpet beckons, so does
the early August night

somewhere far from here, where
the wind blows

sweet, waves the grass, and still
pass it, moving--listen:

rushing in a some kind
of dread line

nothing waits, not for you not
for me, nothing waits--past

the grass, nothing is still, it
moves, regardless,

beyond the night falling, rushing
going down, nothing--nothing

still, you might move too
to see it, regardless

lxxxiii.

a brief glow, the dark becomes dark,
I cannot see--the whole cannot

be recounted, in reflection, there
is too much, the staircase slants

cuts, not twists

at the bottom--who knows? no,
shadow, certain--who can remember:

wet-wood morning, damp mulch, the
moon, high and tight, the hills rise,

they slope, the avenues of trees, impenetrable,
the shuddering emptiness, of the desert--

the light cast over the asphalt, and the lamp
in the window, the third-floor office, who knows--

the boulevard grinding, the sun sunders the dusk
from the day--the sun falls into the cleft, at the

intersection, the crowd falls away, in the hallway,
who can say--the lights hang from the eaves, smoke

rises up into the balcony, on the lee-side the couch
is willing to welcome, the night shivers ice and the

space heater groans, the afternoon sun filters through
the basil, through sparse of roof of leaves over

the bench, the stress unfold endless, and woodsmoke,
sage, rosemary in the morning--the leaves like stars

in the puddles, when it flooded, the sage waves in
the wind, the golden hour and blue dawn, and the

eucalyptus whispers, it doesn't keep its promises--
and who can say, but I think, the storm pipe in

the morning, and the night spiraling into burnt
remnants, and manzanita, and the king oak,

the house falling into the swamp, and the dream
I had, where I walked up to the pepper tree

at the bend, branches hanging low, over the curve,
and the crest, before the sun fell below the trees,

it bathed everything it color, and the moon full
and huge, and low, over the bamboo, over the canal

through the rounded entrance below the foot-bridge,
the chill air, and the scent of garlic, the strange

shivering water below the pier, and in the second story
above the tables, and in the empty, and in the park space

behind the shopping center, where the trees hung wide,
branches low, the plaza before it and the entrance,

and the memory of bamboo, whispering, I think, and
I think it's true that: the time when all stories

could be told at one time, the ice on the plains, and the
bridges frozen, over the delta, the yellow-green northern

fields, and snow piled to the windows, the black branch
against the grimy cinder-block walls, smoke and foreign

words, twice over, and once again--the plants on the sill,
the door hung open, the porch as the light came running

down the ridges, the loping canyons, the oven warm--
it scents the room, the room like a coffin, like a den, like

a closet, like a cell--like a cave, the road along the coast,
the sea of lights, moving, shot through the valley--the,

and I think, it is true, it is certain--bricked in buildings,
and light hanging low in the dogwoods, the unbearable heat

it is true--that the time when all stories were one, could be
told at one time--the age of viable explanation,

that time is over, all stories were one, but that--
--it's alright, that time is over, it's alright.

tent

trace the stars,
with your finger--it is true,
the only writing that means

anything--is buried in the bone
your finger, trace the stars,

limn the constellations, raise the
rafters, thrust the patterns

rubbish, dross and other miscellany
above our heads, the linework

folly, the thin web of recollection
imperfect, whisking in the wind,

tracing the hilltops, breaking them
into segments--it makes them better,

canvas and memory, hang the lights,
or better--make the heavens your lantern,

the moon in the gaps left by experience,

--standing in the center of asphalt circle,
legs like poles--darts between them,

fingers against the sky: flaps and side, the
rope of half-read stories

swaying between them, the wind lights,
goes--this shelter without walls,

tensile, the intangible ceiling--throw the slanting
tipping, spinning, whole of it against the sky,

half-wise, half-built--better written
in fragments, unexpected--it is new

it's old--but the trace rises and weaves
eclectic accretion--becomes whole

and part, frames the sky