Every morning
the world
is created.
Under the orange
sticks of the sun

From a single grain they have mult
When you look in the eyes of one
you have seen them all.
At the edges of highways
they pick at limp things.

The spirit
likes to dress up like this:
ten fingers,
ten toes,
shoulders, and all the rest

In the early curtains
of the dusk
it flew,
a slow galloping
this way and that way

Fat,
black, slick,
galloping in the pitch
of the waves, in the pearly
fields of the sea,

When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the
to buy me, and snaps the purse shu
when death comes

Is the soul solid, like iron?
Or is it tender and breakable, lik
the wings of a moth in the beak of
Who has it, and who doesn’t?
I keep looking around me.

Today again I am hardly myself.
It happens over and over.
It is heaven-sent.
It flows through me
like the blue wave.

I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her poc
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone o

Needing one, I invented her—
the great-great-aunt dark as hicko
called Shining-Leaf, or Drifting
or The-Beauty-of-the-Night.
Dear aunt, I’d call into the leav