Doorway’s never richer, Richard; sharks may bite out every time the tide turns into thunder in the east. Sweetly smelling every bird from out the forest in the sky, the clear air here – which turns, and bites, and measures – lifts the fragrances of something never listened to by all the feeling ears of those who sell their bromides by the sea.
Where is all the trust? Thrown away in paper napkins at the edge of thought’s untended, raining garden? This must be our exercisest muscle, juicy with the bits of plenty’s life among the rain, among the plates and forks and cutlery of waiting children’s always-appetite. Calamity ensues if we don’t bite the spark and keep it fresh from wind, away from paper and the trees and all the living things which may ignite as looking at the way of life of lambs.
Where are all the gentle creatures? Have they taken the back highway to Mrs. Esther’s little trinket-shop, set up the eve of world-war-one inside the rings of Saturn? We should go there, in that case, even though the space through which we’ll travel is quite cold. I will not be deterred.
There I meet the one who will return to here with objects made of love. Subjects made of love. All the parts of speech accounted for along the outer beach of every daytime’s wishing on the farthest-distance star.
That one has a flame that always burns, and is not farther than your hands away.
There are prayers that have been answered, feeling-prayers, sonnets made to God in all the hearted shape of breath of every one who dares to breathe.
The Light is brightest Bright, but I can see. The open-throated joy for which I came, which I name but cannot name. Which I feel, but which is living me in loving’s shape of paradox beyond the fields and sea of any naming-wishing-falling-Saturn-ringing-new-beginning-shining garden in the rain.
And the movement is Love’s Force, set down in time, wrecking all the plans you’ve made to wish upon a star.
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