"You are in the land of lowered
mountains; the air is thick, gold
grass, sweet between your teeth.
A piece of seedless orage, still
sweatinf, sits under tall tree
shade below a seagull's gaze,
half peeled, while waves you ride
in feel like cold ribbon, and good
lives in steady layers of light sift-
ing through sun silt hanging,
swinging in coastal water beds.
so let the days weave to seamless
poems that drift, they sing
around your house. You wake up
early, keep the sheets left folded
like the gathered clouds at noon,
where locusts sing their summer
sonnets, violet fields here sway
like linen rags all around your
head. You've reach the place
your legs can wander, not get
lost, but only lead you close to
the heart of God. Love has given
you keepsakes made of wood,
whittled carefully. You hang
them with your neckline."
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