Pine tree on a moonless night

The moon thinned past threads

Knows not tree from stone

Where do the mountains

Come down to earth

Where does the sea

Know its end

In spite of

He came from one of the last

unwrapped spires

and smelled like nude chirality

like the nature we have shed

And he walked walls instead

of floors, and ate the air

instead of words

the barbarian we used to be

He did not look at me, but wore

every colour of the sky and more

around his neck

This, I think, is the only explanation

*

Image credit

 

Winter Heath

When better days have ridden

Ribbons of mist under the dawn

Receding to the hollows

Where the first seeds came from

We only lose ourselves in searching

For time’s wealth backward wound

But palliate in smaller comforts

That between snow and sun are found

 

Garden, veranda in summer

Do not ask what came of

The clothes we wore back then

Or why the gardens were cut short

By new paths

Do not ask for a remembering

Of those wine-sweet nights, or

The poems composed on the veranda

Between sighs

Preparedness

The driftwood makes nests for daggers

Although this was unexpected

Coming from the sea

The long shadows were like friends

Well-anticipated, but now as liable

To embrace, and to strike

As to slip away

Second-day moon

I am not waiting, no

The red thrush fathoms not our measures

Of days and stars, neither does

The boulder turn from falling

Off the precipice

I am no longer on the mountain

Nor in the plains below