Two prisoners whose cells adjoin communicate with each other
by knocking on the wall.
The wall is the thing which separates them,
but it is also their means of communication.
Every separation is a link.
A key turning in the fields, turns a key wild in the wild
rose--
a child in the rose.
Every thought is morning read through the prison bars
all noon.
A grave gathers in the opening dew.
These gallows, their rosen hue.
This lock doubles a child born in debt in prison,
as I myself was born.
Every heaven is also.
Through the window's bars--
the field.
And the field sparrow is a prison
in flight, two white bars on each wing.
My mind is a little key in a child's hand
turning the rose to tune the rose.
West a single petal at day's end is the whole sky this dying.
Bloom the bard, clouds bruised white.
When the moon rises, the moon is not light,
but seems made of light.
The moon is a prison floating in the night.
The key is bloody in shadow, but also bright.
An orbit turning, pointing vaguely on the field it shines.