Star Droving

If incandescent clouds lit
In old brass by the sun--
Run under, fallen in flame--
Became a bell that rang
Light instead of sound,
They would still summon night
And pull the settling
Stars around our souls.

Healing Is

Healing is
A concert turning
Under mind, under
Force and form.
I cannot find its surface,
Contour --it is more,
A shape, but where?
I can't ignore what
Is not there, yet
I heal and learn it is,
As I am, quite real.

Yesterday Morning

Quite a handsome herd of clouds
Sailing east over our umbrella--
Overtaken in an urge to
Stretch, vaporize and join
Them --made us forget
Our coffees and her hat, but
I am carefuller than that.

One Sees

An old brass padlock lay
Upon a tabletop and
Could be closure to
Something inside itself,
But no key, or need.
One sees, and draws
Where drawing leads.

Where The Hammers Are

Her hammers, packed
In a potting shed, shimmed
In clothespin wedge and
Brick -- sledge, thick mallet,
A carpenter claw, all
Organized-- nothing stupid
About her box of hammers,
Or her.
On the other hand, mine
Are scattered all over,
Under ruins, sunken
Dikes, shattered steeples.
It's almost like we are
Two different people.

Rosa Vespidae

Hornet, at alert
Repose, shares
Silence on a
Rose --an echo
Of old stars.
If an echo
Hears an echo,
It is ours.

Interrogative

This, it does not
Qualify as prayer
But I look up past
Privet, rose, salsify,
Sailing billow under blue
And try to cast thought
Above the sky -beyond
Comprehension, beyond
Time- and I am
All attention.