96.
Loud sea last night I hear at dawn
new sun caught in sugar
else all grisaille the fog of morning
have we done dreaming yet or is
that gothic stonework still in place
the crowds in Latin
all the discontinuities make also a
continuum
as a hand makes everything it touches
its own
this bird all birds squeal a
blackbird in Ireland
land of tuneful sleep more sheep than
men
as every island is the same island
except Manhatta
a place where fish were never
plentiful
but from the ferries you could see
the sleek seals play.
97.
To be long as an epic and nothing
happen
boy with a lyre the size of an oak
tree
hands busier than the wind in its
strings
all words and no meaning
sex without babies
the first posthuman rises from my
couch
sonless in brightness and every girl
his daughter
the Touch Me Not of risen Jesus new
explained
because a story binds us to our
culture
and a song cuts free
all Coleridge no Wordsworth
the fable peters out in song.
