What is the name of light?
I smell the lesser lays of liquid, finished understanding,
Setting in a pool of light without sweat.
The simmering cogs of furnace and heat
Break up the bastards of time with their
Little hats and believer’s glasses.
They take the perfume out of time.
I wish to slip a finger under the waist-band of their mornings,
And fish a prayer like wishes’ eel
For fisher’s time to come, in the waiting dark
Above the skyline of fishermen.
These days, the dark is almost all you can see,
Even without the light to show it.
The winded bird lives undersea,
Drinking a draught of burning-bright fuel
Disguised as living matter made of time and flowers.
These flowers undersea have transparent colors, and
Deep light from glimmering distances shines their leaves to a color
Not perceived by this level of hearing.
Bending upon our brooms, we sweep our kitchens
Clean of pests and dust.
We clean our sweepers, blend out seeming into
Clauses of independent nightshade,
Berries to the rising moon,
Summer playing out in a heat of terrible, beautiful understanding:
We travel as that beginningless, answering unquestion:
Sweeping, moving now,
Bringing us into different and beloved forms of motion
Which scoop out our inner darkness like a life of reeds
At the side of summer’s swooning lava-swamp.
I breathe with my hands,
Spread out to the horizon-line.
This forest has undone my preparation for flowers,
And I sleep alive for the first time since air.
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