WEBVTT

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This is one more Deep Lane poem.

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I don't think I need to tell
you a thing about this one.

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"Deep Lane"-- and I recommend
this to-- those of you who

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write poetry, I recommend
this technique highly.

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It's hard to write-- come up
with a title for every poem you

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write.

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Keep generating them.

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It's useful.

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"Deep Lane."

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I'm resting on a
bench in the cemetery

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while Ned scrawls his
self delighted wild boy

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trace over the slopes of
grass, but we can't stay long,

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since it's a day I need
to go into the city,

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and when I stand up
suddenly, my left legs

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half a foot lower than
my right because I've

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stepped into the sunken newly
filled grave of one Herbert

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Meyer.

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I don't know it
then, but that's when

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the wind blows up from beneath.

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I think I'm just off balance
and make a joke of it

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later, telling
people my day began

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with falling into a grave, and
where can you go from there?

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Later, a storm blows down
the moraine, crisp and depth

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charged with ozone
and exhilaration,

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chills my face and arms with
a wind I've already met,

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winds up the lanes and rattles
the cups in the cabinet,

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bends the beauty berry
and Joe Pye weed down

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in the direction of
beautiful supplication.

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The maple and walnut sway in the
highest regions of themselves.

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Leaves circling in air
like the great curtains

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of bubbles blown by the
humpback to encircle

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the delicious schools.

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Blows in my sleep and
blows while I'm cooking.

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Blows while I read and when I
kiss, does it ever blow then.

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The wind not particular to
Mr. Meyer nor anyone else

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and thus the nervy
thrill of its invitation.

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To be unbound, not at
all what you thought.

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To rush up from
the sinking Earth

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on a gust of investigation.

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Now go beat the crooked
little house and the cracks

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in the shingles.

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Tunnel your hour as the
mouse in the stale loaf,

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fly back to the strong
hands of the baker,

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further back into
the wheat, forward

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into the belly of
the mouse child.

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What reason to ever end?

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I know one.

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If you don't hold still,
you can have joy after joy,

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but you can't stay
anywhere to love.

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That's the price that
wind-- that rib rattling

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wind waiting to sweep you up,
that's the price the wind pays.

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