I'm going to end with a poem called "Spirit City."
It's the first poem I wrote after my daughter was born.
"Spirit City"-- it's in four parts.
"Emphasizing not only the ground upon which her movement builds,
but matter it forms.
The idea of movement is a material also,
like the transparency of light above a blue ridge,
being apricot.
Though the ridge is not the blue color of air on it.
This light is like a space that's a passage in time.
There's movement when the space changes.
And in its state of being, what it changed to.
The content of your focus on it, like an image,
can start suddenly.
The way my eye makes the horizon, my state of mind
is making the state of being of the space.
The state of mind is like touching an object
by watching it against graduated lines in a reflection.
The ridge grows bluer.
Instead of trying to know a change
from patches of contacts.
The mystery of a color can diminish without the ridge
becoming opaque.
Every other moment of an experience
must push to extravagance, or sphericity, of horizon
not magnitude.
I can't specify the act of description by her.
The words are like a train station, where a lot of lines
cross.
And having a person vibrates, showing which line will move.
The time of having her becomes an absorptive surface
instead of when the person was alive.
There was an inseparable light of the event for each place,
like a birthplace.
And the horizon represents a passage in time and light.
A one-way membrane, she thinks is the edge of a shadow,
like a medical procedure into her body.
Then, color crosses back from a petal.
I can correlate my sensation of reddening
with changes in the sky.
I can't graph my sense of this position of my body, which
has no intensity, but is more like time
on either side of you.
Each point of the space is a center of a sphere,
as if your eyes were a point, as if a person being
were like hearing.
Her time is a center of increasing disorder--
an arrow in the space.
It is finite in extent, yet has no edges--
like the surface of the Earth.
On the horizon, an apricot seam is not the content
of a concept of you.
Knowing this light is not a content.
But seeing it is a content of my consciousness.
If it's an image, it can have content that
is telling something to me.
Or if you were telling the content of your dream."
Here's the last part.
"The image of an apricot band of light in my memory
does not block out the impression of this band now.
I can see your shoes on red dirt that covers blue hills.
And the pulsating band turned redder.
I define red by pointing to dirt, not
like the shadow of a petal.
A place in time, not a thing with closeness or distance.
As if I were walking instead of looking or remembering.
The use I speak of seeing is a form of use.
Light releases events and things away
from the thing to the culture of the person or presence,
as if a pivot between the necessity of relation
among human beings called agreement in the form of life,
and the lack of this necessity between time
and a collapsed star."
Thank you.
[APPLAUSE]