Winter Vocative
Broken sky-mirror,
blue-shadowed snow,
June is far now,
hold while you can;
show bare of branch
stark of stalk:
ache us to know.
Out There
I have laughed with the mind, sometimes hard
and with ugly dismissal, how its last conclusions rot out
initial bases or tight lock up the mind
in a cage it cannot escape from and is held there.
But I accede; knowledge is what I am freed
from, as once I was freed from power, not
having any. Knowledge and power are what
we want until we find, at last, they are not.
There is a state outside of me, too, without
these things. Reality? The God? I apply
to it. It has my reverence and awe, my love.
I am content there where I wanted once.
The Action
It is confining to experience the world in acts.
We begin to think our acts are somehow the world:
all those people, narrative histories,
who felt what to whom and how and what
they did and what we did ourselves. Oh, no,
that isn't the world. I sit quiet, aware.
How very large the world is.
Metaphor Again
Oh, make a world, OK
but its glory will go and the stones it's built on
will erode and frost-fracture or something else
in warmer climates. Never mind what else
would make the metaphor; the world is one
itself and not to be taken word for word
any more than other metaphors:
pronouncements, dogmas, ideologies,
hard facts, material truth. Give up
and believe without, say praise, give
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