169.
I think I counted wrong I’m not the
only one
there is a wolf beside me and a
kingbird in the tree
beast and bird and me together can’t
know as much as one woman can
call us all to bed and see what
happens then
the Irish poets worked for pay the
pay was praise
fat salmon in the cooking pot poetry
is war without an enemy
when ‘faith’ replaces cult the polis
is dead
the Greeks never had to believe
anything, they knew, they did
as Jung at the end said “I don’t have
to believe, I know”
faith cuts us apart from one another
believe nothing and do everything,
and conversely
both ways make wise, help the wind
blow, paideia.
170.
I’m never shy of naming elements
the things that were here for us
before we knew
so those are the colors of my
spectrum
those are the blocks I fiddle with
rousing to you impatient to stroll
road in shadow past a donkey in a
field
a hill up ahead but everyone speaks
French
and none of this was here before the
hill
so I will go to my mothers below the
hill
and live among the ferly folk as
though I were a man
and listen to their practice of sun
and moon
and learn enough to come back in a
hundred years and all for you.
