First thing is a song.
Is the mountain death despair unlived black flowered,
bare of goddesses of blue waterfalls, of mystic tears?
Is it a stone cloud innocent of motion?
Listen, he sings, the mountaineer.
The lamb kneels and the livid wildcat.
The lost bird waits like we wait,
our naked rocks is the echo across seven times
seven hills ascends, descends, in eternal fountain.
Oh living lives and dying die yet die not on despair.
Let's fly your song, your myth so strange.
What triumph is so simple as a song?
What gifts so pure as singing mountaineers
Catch, fortune.
Catch the moonlit hawk.
Does he sleep in an old bronze tree or rapid his breathing
wildness?
Does he invoke the spacious night?
Catch him.
Here is the magic net.
A thing to swing and shout about, a year, a year, a year,
take it.
It is laying here for centuries.
Out of the dark medieval lair, the Gothic voice
admonishes, cast out your devils.
Oh, beware.
It is a grievous sin.
Despair, despair.
Bedfellow of ring wronging nights, I lie with you.
Your aged fingers touch my eyes like snow.
I cannot ride.
I cannot go.
I stare into your dark as if gulped by a stone.
Your vast narcissists pool reflects the lag of spring,
where lost cells drown and broken wings of Grecian birds
drift to unspoken shores.
There are no angels anymore.
The light is wide, too plain for limping quail, the fox in pain.
The ashes and the child's bright hair.
The card queen drops holding her iris,
the skull void of surprise.
Do I joy that I have eyes?
Old sin despair, to practice lover clasping me ,
a dream like a long legged crane may fly from lake to lake.
But when I try to take you with me love, I cannot fly.
Am I the dreamer or the dream?
If not the dreamer I, but dream, I shall not
stay in your cruel mind.
A wall is without meaning to a specter.
If I can move from your embrace, if I
can dare a speculative new grass shore,
then this dream can live.