"Coming to Rest"
"When we finally come to rest, the flagrant butterfly
and the concealed snake recede from view.
The acolyte receives a sacred thread from the teacher.
Soon, the disappearance of the granite
of the mountains and then the mountains themselves.
In direct sunlight, impossible to develop,
a philosophy that excludes the dark blue bee
and the iridescent parrot with red eyes.
High above the waves, a formation of pelicans
turns the sky as expertly as a pilot commandeers a fire.
Amid the day's destructions, no accounting
of creation that amidst tomato worms
igniting spontaneously or seahorses pumping babies
into the open sea.
The entrance to the port, placid by water--
by land, is a spectacle.
The old highway swings down the mountain grade
and crosses a little valley below the lighthouse.
From there, it works away--
it works its way along the ridge,
between the ocean and the high half vertical hills,
and follows the narrowing passage
until blocked by a massive cinder--
as good a place as any to spend a winter.
From the height of the bridge, you
could prove to me that the silver strand is an island,
or that the slate mass, carving a dome in the foggy sky,
is no island at all.
It is possible to drift and still see the mustard
on the hills, lit by lazy sun.
The visage of the day assembles like a carnival mask
that can be held up for protection, like a painted fan.
On it, a warrior stands in readiness, fully exposed
to typhoon winds and departures that begin on the waterfront.
On the opposite side, the warrior
faces an alluring Half Moon Bay, dotted with pleasure craft left
at anchor.
In the inner sanctum, at every turn,
a shrine to receiving the world as purely as we can.
In the gallery of 330 million divinities,
a mammalian and humanoid cast every stage
of thinking about the past, cause or causes, available
materials, catalogs of color and form
in a wilderness of honeycomb, crumbling gradually
into wheat grass and wild flowers cottonwoods,
tremulous in the slight movement of the hour.
Inside the monk's memorial, skeletons laid as lovingly
as bridal sheets.
Their notice above the threshold reads,
salvation is as near to you as your hands and feet.
In friendship, the only rupture is betrayal.
The first consequence-- a lurching
of the untidy script and set.
The players, good as they are at their instruments,
are not prepared to suffer.
When it happens, a muddy wheeled cart
tilts jagged between the palm trees
wide rows, just where the narrow track cuts off
from the main road.
No, what seems distant here--
the ocean is very near, and what seems near the rising tide
is very far away.
I mean, bicycle, and rider, and a small cart, used now
as they are as rafts, careening into those
who once sang together, watch a darkening
sky surround a single horse.
Deep furrows fissure and clay lumps shatter
until everywhere horse and rider are
buried by good fortunes dwelling in a rear view suddenly."