Jorie Graham
Prayer
Over a dock railing, I watch the minnows, thousands, swirl Themselves, each a minuscule muscle, but also, without the Way to create current, making of their unison (turning, re- infolding, Entering and exiting their
Mind
The slow overture of rain, Each drop breaking Without breaking into The next, describes The unrelenting, syncopated Mind. Not unlike The hummingbirds Imagining their wings To be their heart, and swallows Believing the horizon
Manteau Three
In the fairy tale the sky makes of itself a coat Because it needs you to put it On. How can it do this? It collects its motes. It condenses its sound- Track, all
Salmon
I watched them once, at dusk, on television, run, In our motel room half-way through Nebraska, quick, glittering, past beauty, past The importance of beauty., Archaic, Not even hungry, not even endangered, driving deeper
The Guardian Angel Of The Little Utopia
Shall I move the flowers again? Shall I put them further to the left Into the light? Win that fix it, will that arrange the Thing? Yellow sky. Faint cricket in the dried-out bush.
Of The Ever-Changing Agitation In The Air
The man held his hands to his heart as he danced. He slacked and swirled. The doorways of the little city Blurred. Something Leaked out, Kindling the doorframes up, Making each entranceway Less true.
The Guardian Angel Of The Private Life
All this was written on the next day’s list. On which the busyness unfurled its cursive roots, Pale but effective, And the long stem of the necessary, the sum of events, Built-up its tiniest
The Way Things Work
is by admitting Or opening away. This is the simplest form Of current: Blue Moving through blue; Blue through purple; The objects of desire Opening upon themselves Without us; the objects of faith. The
Underneath (9)
Spring Up, up you go, you must be introduced. You must learn belonging to (no-one) Drenched in the white veil (day) The circle of minutes pushed gleaming onto your finger. Gaps pocking the brightness
Le Manteau De Pascal
I have put on my great coat it is cold. It is an outer garment. Coarse, woolen. Of unknown origin. * It has a fine inner lining but it is As an exterior that
The Surface
It has a hole in it. Not only where I concentrate. The river still ribboning, twisting up, into its re- Arrangements, chill enlightenments, tight-knotted quickenings And loosenings whispered messages dissolving the messengers The river
To A Friend Going Blind
Today, because I couldn’t find the shortcut through, I had to walk this town’s entire inner Perimeter to find Where the medieval walls break open In an eighteenth century Arch. The yellow valley flickered
San Sepolcro
In this blue light I can take you there, Snow having made me a world of bone Seen through to. This is my house, My section of Etruscan wall, my neighbor’s Lemontrees, and, just