How should I not be glad to contemplate
the clouds clearing beyond the dormer window
and a high tide reflected on the ceiling?
There will be dying, there will be dying,
but there is no need to go into that.
The poems flow from the hand unbidden
and the hidden source is the watchful heart.
The sun rises in spite of everything
and the far cities are beautiful and bright.
I lie here in a riot of sunlight
watching the day break and the clouds flying.
Everything is going to be all right.
Death is very seducing, can be very sweet and welcome. You just need to live the hell of a mental illness, for example, or lose your child in an unfair war, and all of them are that, cannons that devour life. And it's coming, oh sweet jesus Buddha whoever has some power, it's coming, it's galloping on the hills over my house. And I am with my arms fully open and my eyes already closed.ReplyDelete