Here's a poem from "Grassblade Light":
They were muttering in the shadows, Blackstone,
Henry. Amid the tamarack and cedar dusk,
twilight grey, all outline gone. And do not ask
of whom they spoke: you know. It is all one.
Under the harvest evening of the year
time poured slowly, out of the architecture
of the honeycomb, out of the tattooed, fractured
hulk of dead bull, hull, or womb. . . here:
into the hollow drum or heart of Orpheus.
Imagine in that catacomb a clay-borne pearl
lofted (by a threat of courtiers) upon a shell
or spell wagon - rumbling gradually east to west.
That wagon, ark, or agate frigate
travels up the spine - yours, mine;
a blooded pearl, a light wine
tightly casked - for a wedding in Newport.
Imagine a pale pearl, a pellet, a single pinpoint
of autumnal light, hidden by ruddy leaves,
blooded leaves. Buried in dripping hives,
a crown. The son of man makes his appointed
round; out of crowfooted shadows
light sheds rays - from another realm.
Another sphere. Pearl at the helm -
the brow of reality. All one now.
Harvested, slain. A chorus of crossroads.
Son of man, you go as it is determined.
We all go together - into the whirlwind.
Under a light crown the wind upholds.