His head and legs were like a watch work’s ticking,
but spaced by intervals of what seemed thought.

Off, on—there must be something else,
some middle way, third eye, or shakti current.

O light, unsayable in your splendor.
A lot of good you did to me.

We were inmates of an orphanage in Kraków;
A prison in Panama;
A school for the blind in Genoa.

Silence and ungridded space, from the tipped back glass
Of cross-hair sights angled through flensed white birch.

It made you less as well as more than human

always another moment
drawing back

I had been searching the hill for a vision.
And unabashed as if waiting he came into sight.

No, we cannot be the amorous ballet the tourist
      requires for a backdrop—

In this respect the patriarch was almost certainly
      mistaken