There is an archipelago rising
Out of the green waters that, rippling
And swaying, are the oak tree’s shadow

We walked on it, in the very flesh
No different only colder, as was
The sea itself. It was simple as that.

Not every kind of water will do
to make the pool under the rock face
that afterward will be clear forever

I gave you sorrow to hang on your wall 
Like a calendar in one color. 
I wear a torn place on my sleeve. 

The harvest was over. Even the scythe had not been mine. I had nowhere to go.

In the evening I found a girl lying on the ground like a sheaf of wheat, radiant and silent. When I bent over her she was watching me, smiling.

They say the sun will come back
at midnight
after all
my one love

Two boards with a token roof, backed
Against the shelving hill, and a curtain
Of frayed sacking which the wind absently

These junipers growing out from the yellow rocks
   now in the sunlight near the top of the steep slope
under its split cliff face and these dwarf oaks returning

You with a muse of your own
in the old gallery
that profile of grave beauty

But there is only one of you
they say as though they knew
and it may even be true