OK, three more poems--
hm, they're very long.
"Watching the Invisible."
Watching the invisible wind climbing swiftly
the steep hillside.
The grass rearing and plunging like the ocean.
Day of wind.
Day of barely audible music driving the seed heads crazy.
Thin bodies twisted, and swaying, and bent down flat.
Wind printed with fossils and jewels.
Wind uttering flashes of light, revelation visiting everything
the same.
The wind brushing my bare skin with its silk,
like a girl going in and out of flesh as through a door.
When I climb dripping out of the old frog pond,
Wind is there to meet me.
Certain cold thoughts racing ahead
of the sunlight, not of death.
No, but I think of the day sinking back into darkness
and the hands held up dripping with it.
The hands held up drying themselves in the wind.