The grasses are light brown 
        and ocean comes in 
        long shimmering lines 
        under the fleet from last night 
        which dozes now in the early morning

Here and there horses graze
        On somebody's acreage

                Strangely, it was not my desire

that bade me speak in church to be released 
    but memory of the way it used to be in
  careless and exotic play

        when characters were promises
  then recognitions. The world of transformation 
is real and not real but trusting.

                Enough of the lessons? I mean
didactic phrases to take you in and out of 
love's mysterious bonds?

        Well I myself am not myself

    and which power of survival I speak 
for is not made of houses.

    It is inner luxury, of golden figures 
  that breathe like mountains do
    and whose skin is made dusky by stars.

O fresh day in February 
        Come along
with me under pine whose new cones 
                make flowers. In a mellow mood
        let's take anything
    and you're better 
in the peaceful flowing 
in the bech
in the bird who flys up 
    out of coyote bush,
    bob cat who crosses the road.

    For who could think I could see
the grace of other souls born, and reborn 
      before in crab shells
     snail shells, the head of a grebe
    molesin, new onions up. Drawn by 
your clever sleigh of tortoise
        I listen for the melody
        to sing along.

1973