Our field is the sky,
tilled by the sweat of motors,
in the face of night,

Having a crush was how I existed —
how I spent recess; I wandered
dull fields gone brilliant

Five times the church bells break
the violet elements to gold;

“It was only a pictured face,” I wanted to rant
back at Hazan’s film, “not the gift you looked for”

where all forgotten things will find their lasting
home was never lost or touched by need

The gardeners gazing through their open shears
Or staring sightless from their wooden ladders
Stand helpless by and dream they cannot lower

Motion, motion.
Within the body cells
each nucleus rotates widdershins

The sun’ s suspended like a drop of amber
Above the crescent of a colonnade.
And he is standing on a gravel path

Because distance becomes tumescent in the heat
the haze erases buildings out of walking range.
We’ve considered walking as far as the backyard

The writing of poems
and the living of life
seem to require