The Myth of the Fields
. . . into his gates with
thanksgiving and into his
courts with praise . . .
The bluet blossoms lie thin and transparent
As petal-shaped slivers of a cold sky fastened
To the earth. The seedhead of a dawn, as icy wheat,
Brushes the sun-touched withers of the rising colt.
And the pony-scented sun rises, spilling flashing seeds
Of ice above the deeply buried petals of a black sky.
The court of god is the presence
Of this myth in the field, a court entered
By particles of thanksgiving discovered as light
Inside the quiver of the pony’s haunch, inside the thin
Fire of ice cracking across the columned grasses.
And the kingdom of the field is the sheathed
And hooved, the rooted and earth-tight myth
Of god, the traceable electrons of that myth existing
As opening gate of potential light found and witnessed
Inside the intimate body of bluet, inside
The failing sound of the pony’s call.
This point of praise for the sunsheathed stem
And broken-bladed frost is, in fact, half particle,
Half cresting effluence of illumination itself.
The sight seen through the open gates
Of the seeded bluets, the frozen blades
And icy myth of the sun, the shining shoulders
And frosted mane of god, all must enter into being,
Solely and at once, through the recognized form
Of their inseparable praises.
Remembering the Imagination: A Love Letter
Can you imagine remembering the rain, less than rain,
Yesterday morning, almost a stationary mist,
Imperturbable and weightless, a mist remembering
To exist in those places where nothing else
Was imagining itself to exist at that moment?
I remember myself imagining the spun moisture
Arching inside the inner-surface fuzz
Of every pre-dawn leaf and the glint of the condensation
On the outer surface of each of those dark green
Memorable leaves. I can imagine the fog
Completely filling the oak tree with more spaces
Than it could ever remember having possessed before.
And I remember the pine tree, maintained and encased
Inside the mist, holding one clear precipitate drop
Poised at the pinnacle of each of its sharp edges,
As if the tree had suddenly imagined in glass
Those precise points at which it had ceased forever
To remember its identity.
Can you imagine the clear golden horses existing
Inside and outside the fog, never remembering to imagine
Their perimeters, leaving themselves thus vulnerable
To that indefinite mist moving at will in and out
Of their rib bones and flanks, their fetlocks and withers?
The fog, moving in and out of the gold lenses
Of their disappearing eyes, could easily carry
In either direction whatever vision the horses
Might choose to imagine themselves remembering.
Imagine the fog, appearing, if the horses
Remember it simultaneously, as smoke blown from their nostrils,
Or appearing, if the horses imagine it simultaneously,
As billows of pale surf rolling over their disintegrating
Hooves. If the horses should emerge snorting
And rearing on the surface once more, imagine yourself shouting
To them before they sing again, “Remember, remember
To imagine the total gold boundaries of your possible existence.”
Outside the imagination, no one had ever been able to remember
Anything of gold horses which have forgotten themselves.
At the distance from which you read this,
Try to imagine an invisible fog filling like light
More spaces between us than we might remember exist, ignoring
Those perimeters we have chosen to forget, an indefinite light
Moving freely from eye to eye, easily carrying the vision
Of everything I might wish to imagine that you remember
Of my existence at this moment.
A Sequence of Circumstances
Inside a real forest of blue ash, blue beech,
Speckled alder and ward willow, there is an imaginary
Lake bordered by greenbriar and honeysuckle,
By frogbit, lily and rushes of waterweed.
On that imaginary lake there is a real vision
Of two lovers drifting alone in the dusk
Beside the tangled banks of dark forest, lovers
Whispering together as they lie side by side
In the bow of the boat.
Within this real vision the woman makes imaginary
Trails across the surface of the moon
On the lake as if she actually explored the dust
Of that light by the tip of her finger moving
Over the water’s white craters and their peaks.
By the imaginary trails her finger makes there,
The real moon on any real night is not known
And witnessed hereafter to be
Forever marked by fable.
And when her lover first bends to kiss her breast
In the dusk, moving his lips slowly across the dark
Of her nipple exactly as if he were a fable
Discovering the soft, hidden surface of some unmarked
Moon, there is a recognition of motion rising
In the mind, a motion reminiscent itself of dusk-scented
Lake water rocking slowly like a cherishing breath
Slowly discovering an imaginary sky, a real motion
Of recognition which could never have existed at all
Through any sequence of circumstances
Other than these.