The priest, with melting intonation,
bridal sighs, deep shade
of bays, abandoned recesses -

the beardless one, the son
lifts high the censer, scans
the exacting responsorial.

And the difficult - the impossible
sweetness is born once more -
harmony's arrow touches home -

O to be lifted forever
in the resonant ark,
your salt-stung aria!



The child honoring you in dreams,
embrasure of innocence, tender shoots
of early radiance - your figure
landscape, unfamiliar town, scent
of May lilacs along a worn road.

Not to be known yet,
only a heavy cloud pregnant
with summer rain
(iron mortality, rust
of decline not yet to be);

gathering up your skirts
you find your way, slow path
beyond the jealous decorations,
fever of scorn, offended pride,
dry branches crackling - a bonfire.

[& one very old poem:]


The child knows clouds,
and lies in the green yards
as they fill the empty sky,
make it round, looming down,
shying away, or drifting off.

There are no mountains.
On the porch a sleeping cat
rolls over, into the sunlight.
Flies buzz. Around noon
he looks in a window,

a piano leans against a wall
of the blue-green room.

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