204.
Maddening stillness of the summer air
here as if nobody’s there, nobody
cares
I come from wind and you far more
crystal movement of the invisible
emphasis belongs to humankind
gods write the book we put the
italics in
the trouble is as with Hopkins’
beauty
it never seems not to be a poem
never a simple language thing that
happens by
still seizes the breath or chills the
heart
there has to be nobody listening when
I speak
so that the words break free to all
of you.
205.
Now of the cicadas from their long
sleep
awoke and bred and did and sang and
now to bed again
what are we to some glorious animal
eloquent in hyperspace our spit their
silver
because we make much of things
art is Latin for the way of making
the way of making is so our only way
childish wits suppose we too were
made
no god ever had the art of us
we came out of the sea and from the
ground
we mated in bold daylight and we did
and we do.
