Among all the leaves and stalks of rice,
How can one endure
The countless promises
Of such sweet and gentle white?
And even more—
If one is a lone peacock,
Suddenly wandering lost
Through this vast, oceanic awe,
Running and rustling
With the breeze—
And still more,
If that peacock
Once had been a mighty king,
Now burdened
With a long and luxuriant tail
That impedes both step and flight.
When the restless afternoon
Begins to break into evening dusk,
Surely somewhere in some far-flung town,
Along some back-street way,
A blonde woman always appears,
Neither young nor old,
Yet brazen enough, as suits her kind—
Neither clothed too much
Nor—yet—in the buff,
But, in a strangely timeless act,
Pressing forward
A piercing point,
A silent riot,
By which she ratifies anew
An old philosopher’s teaching
About geometry,
Which dares to reveal
So much of what otherwise remains unseen,
And the need
For a well-bound form—
How easily, without it,
Even the good
May become,
For many,
What Set’s gift became
To Osiris—
A finely measured,
Ajar tomb.
Over the boardwalk
in curves descending
down to the river
that hugs its islands like a cape,
trees arch and bend,
subduing breeze
in a tight embrace.
There when you enter
the hush of that long arcade,
you begin to step
deeper and deeper
where green is all,
darkly in green stained—
the air, the scents, the shade,
and even breath—
even breath,
one that, ripening in rapture, bliss,
is at once both young and enough old
to gladly ride and read
where that frieze may run
by leading hearts
hitherto unsung
or unnamed,
its chosen kin
with its woos
and hallowed vows.
