Blake, the sun is on the roof.
The laundry is drying in the light.
Air moves around me and I prepare, make a gift of myself.
Make my feet soft, and think of Blake
riding near the tops of the trees, past our house.
The bread is in the oven when we die.
The day is spread and we delay.
Blake already is in the sky.
What is joy in this dark room?
What is light to this?
All night the ghosts of disperse, of chaos
flee through my dreaming.
I would not repent, though the world separated
into all its parts and could not go back.
Get out, get out, get out, I shouted
until I could not tell if anything was left to talk to,
that had ears.
Still refused.
Then the sun smiled, and Christ smiled
and my laundry grew soft in the warm wind.
There, see there?
The world is good to me.
I am finished with knife and window.
My bed will be underground soon enough.
I will persist in this permanence that flesh holds.
The body is smooth, the voices speaking within.
Blake comes down calling me, says, this is the time.
The sea is hitting the rocks.
The light is crushed and flies up back to the sun.
Rejoice in the breaking of the light,
rejoice when you are two and one,
in the leaving and the coming home.
Rejoice in the room that awaits you,
empty except for the empty glass.
I fly up, disappear inside of him.
It is grand.
I see the simple cow, a red tailed hawk and a lamb.
The creek with the small fish in it.
The sound of the sea at the edge of the field.
The sound of it lightly under the trees, birds whistling,
wind and leaves mixing in the slightly swollen heat.
The sound of the sea in his mind.
The glass is spilling.
They both shine in that room, water and spilling light.