Realization

Imagination

is not quite up to thinking

the Absolute, which

is Nothing yet lets

each particular being

wag its own most tail.

That idiotic

smile may be all we can know

of what lets us be.

 

 

 

Bicycle Lane

Soul and body one,

as created, instinct or

extinct. Bright and cold,

they speed by on bikes,

head-down, rapt, stream past into

the city to work.

Young, aging, old.

I watch in admiration

of the world in play.

 

 

Carmel Bay 1955

Night. Whisper of high

tide in fog-bound Carmel Bay–

1955?

Summer vacation.

Nothing to do but lie there,

memorize the sound.

Now counter-image

to Hill’s self-quenching hedged sun,

The Trimph of Love.

February Song

The form of the song

is in the moment’s passing.

In February,

the sky,  pearlescent,

transcends winter grey by miles.

It happens: the more

porosity, the

more the bare landscape lets go

of its immanence.

 

 

 

Marginalia: Geoffrey Hill’s ‘The Jumping Boy’

A serious joy

in leaping, Geoffrey Hill re-

calls his youthful self

in some late verses.

More rain today, but so light

it hardly expands

the puddles, dimpling

them, as if playing around

with pure potential,

creating tiny

waves of interference

beyond memory.

Winter Noon

A cold mist at noon.

The children on the playground

blurs of yellow, red,

blue. Their voices blend,

a small ocean of meanings

I cannot fathom.

I listen, recall

the first page of Moby Dick,

those stick men leaning.