For all my slowness, you will find a lake.
For all my mood, you will find an anchor.
Coming down from the cross,
I journey into the next quadrant of the day.
The pieces of stained glass tell the story
of my work in the garden.
I'm leaving the stones in the sand.
We search heartache with a comb
and purchase the hollow of the knees.
The reaches of the day cross us like a mantel
for the fire slowly dying.
I am shaped by rain now or the love of a summer day.
I have thought as coral and thus in a small way
Riches, come to me, I am done with this room.
Are there any lost poets out there?
Trudging the street with gospels.
Your metaphors are filling the hotels with guests.
The banks are building interest in your name.
You are pleasing the majority with your tone.
Your sincerity turns the wheel of our mind.
The poets stand on the corner melting
into lost automobiles.
Divine desperation fills the scorecard of the gods.
I strike the weak sister into the dance fought
with religious lilies.
She points out colors hours away from the center.
I am an index fighting to take shape.
The bricks of the schoolhouse pass through me
on the way to the library.
The real world is hidden in the point of a horse race.
One eyelid is like the slide of a microscope.
Reality is struck in the being serene to slowness.
The complete word is always the ladle.
The unquiet measures of my soul give helplessness a form.
I am struck on the shoulder by a force acting
with the shadows that turn off ordinary objects.
I am powerless with my powerful ideas
about unheralded rescue before great works of art.
Painters, unfurl our eyelids
only because they are treasures.
Restless timepiece, I am what you are.
We are outlets in a restless world.
We are opponents of central imagination.
The art world overtakes the real world.
The wick of the moderns is postulated with paint.
I ignite the genesis of our thought.
The anchor of the ancients drops like a falling star.
I'm melting photographs like they are gothic silver.
The years I try to take photographs slip
through my hands like early Rene Magritte.
The black, Guardian painting seizes me by the temples.
I travel to a museum in a town that doesn't exist.
The Ancients had no name for park.
The glow of the stars was the applause of the first stage.
The first, gentle playwrights, close to the particulars
of creation, provoked happiness in the crowd.
Sadness is a recent development.
Look over yonder the deck of the ageless.
Lost sailors in a gardener's mind look for better waves
in waters uncharted, fiery resistance in the stars.