WEBVTT

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"Coming to Rest"

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"When we finally come to
rest, the flagrant butterfly

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and the concealed
snake recede from view.

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The acolyte receives a sacred
thread from the teacher.

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Soon, the disappearance
of the granite

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of the mountains and then
the mountains themselves.

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In direct sunlight,
impossible to develop,

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a philosophy that
excludes the dark blue bee

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and the iridescent
parrot with red eyes.

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High above the waves,
a formation of pelicans

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turns the sky as expertly as
a pilot commandeers a fire.

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Amid the day's
destructions, no accounting

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of creation that
amidst tomato worms

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igniting spontaneously or
seahorses pumping babies

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into the open sea.

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The entrance to the
port, placid by water--

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by land, is a spectacle.

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The old highway swings
down the mountain grade

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and crosses a little valley
below the lighthouse.

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From there, it works away--

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it works its way
along the ridge,

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between the ocean and the
high half vertical hills,

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and follows the
narrowing passage

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until blocked by
a massive cinder--

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as good a place as
any to spend a winter.

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From the height
of the bridge, you

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could prove to me that the
silver strand is an island,

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or that the slate mass, carving
a dome in the foggy sky,

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is no island at all.

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It is possible to drift
and still see the mustard

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on the hills, lit by lazy sun.

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The visage of the day
assembles like a carnival mask

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that can be held up for
protection, like a painted fan.

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On it, a warrior stands in
readiness, fully exposed

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to typhoon winds and departures
that begin on the waterfront.

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On the opposite
side, the warrior

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faces an alluring Half Moon Bay,
dotted with pleasure craft left

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at anchor.

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In the inner sanctum,
at every turn,

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a shrine to receiving the
world as purely as we can.

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In the gallery of 330
million divinities,

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a mammalian and humanoid
cast every stage

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of thinking about the past,
cause or causes, available

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materials, catalogs
of color and form

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in a wilderness of honeycomb,
crumbling gradually

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into wheat grass and
wild flowers cottonwoods,

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tremulous in the slight
movement of the hour.

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Inside the monk's memorial,
skeletons laid as lovingly

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as bridal sheets.

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Their notice above
the threshold reads,

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salvation is as near to
you as your hands and feet.

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In friendship, the only
rupture is betrayal.

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The first consequence--
a lurching

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of the untidy script and set.

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The players, good as they
are at their instruments,

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are not prepared to suffer.

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When it happens, a
muddy wheeled cart

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tilts jagged between
the palm trees

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wide rows, just where
the narrow track cuts off

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from the main road.

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No, what seems distant here--

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the ocean is very near, and
what seems near the rising tide

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is very far away.

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I mean, bicycle, and rider,
and a small cart, used now

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as they are as rafts,
careening into those

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who once sang together,
watch a darkening

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sky surround a single horse.

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Deep furrows fissure
and clay lumps shatter

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until everywhere
horse and rider are

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buried by good fortunes dwelling
in a rear view suddenly."

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