To make a real jump from that time and that poem
both in to its opposite in the other part
of one's view of how things are and a completely opposite poem,
I want to read two very short ones which
are both more obviously the mythology of them,
if you want to call it that, is much more apparent clearly
personal although it's not one of those heavily
autobiographical poems.
But they're both poems to do with the weather
that you not today, but ordinarily would
be used to in this part of the world.
And I don't think there's anything
much more that needs to be said, but first of them is--
the first of them is connected in some ways
with the poems I was reading from The Moving Target.
It's called "Provision.'
All morning with dry instruments, the field
repeats the sound of rain from memory.
And in the wall the dead increase their invisible honey.
It is August, the flocks are beginning to form.
I will take with me the emptiness of my hands.
What you do not have you find everywhere.