invisible to the naked eye

animalcules in a pool of rainwater
mysteries of the number nine
atoms quarks muons and so on
yielding the flat and smooth of this table
the first touch of our fingers
on its patient surface

the shadow side of the world
the world's curve
many kinds of hunger
your dreams beside me in the darkness

other people's lives in square gardens
brushed by the airplane's shadow
as we gaze down at
the swings and sheds
and blue green pools
jewelling up through light overcast

the old man shuffling down the sidewalk
with his small dog tied to his walker

Wineglass

The wineglass, clouded halfway up
the bowl by use and cleaning
still gleams, a prism,
pale gold within
dusky gold without
golden bangles falling, falling round

day ebbs from the grey bowl of the sky
heaving with agitations of sound
the sirens, the shadowing roar
of jets above us like an airlift
that began in another history
but carries on, a broken silver stream

gold becomes mercury glistening as it rolls
into the dark under the cupboard

soft hands lift the glass
eyes turn to the flickering screen
that bring the world in

a concerned face mouths a question
in the background, a house slides into the sea
it is tiresome.
we sip.
hands resting on what remains
of a granitic batholith

idly contemplate how much
native rock was once displaced
by this plutonic intrusion
before, denatured, mirror-honed,
as far as can be from its violent birth
it came into our service

is there anything natural here?
will anything good surprise us now?

the shopping list lies on the counter
as if we would forget what we hunger for
write water, light.
underline light.

put down the memory of blue
sky tonsured by withdrawing clouds
and the blue, blue arching dome

put down the gritty miles of pale
sand exquisitely scalloped
by steady driving wind
lake waves piling up and over themselves
mad wings beating against the shore

put down sitting back to stone
facing the wind
toes arching down for warmth
under the dry slipping sand
to the dark damp that waits
for hand or rake to mold it
to a shape buried in some mind

between the blue and the sibilant rushing water
everything is satisfied
the mind’s eye a wide-winged gull
carried this way and that on boundless air

Reasons to love water

its lens diffracts sky light into the deep
or marbles its shallows to our curious view
it pearls itself under bladed leaves
animals follow its scent in the busy air
it cannot be held in our hands
but how simply it holds us
it makes beautiful the forms that move in it
the surface heals as we tear through it
it is inside and outside just enough

First written spring 1971

Pleasant and warm
sun on the bare arm,
yes, and yes,
the fat baby legs
rapelling off the mother's stomach,
the hair finer than new grass.

So many growing things
in the spring of the eye.
Chilled senses crave
the surprise of green
swelling the dead stalks,
the halo of trees awaking.

We read the message wrong.
We are not vines.
Our eyes are not buds
that shrivel here and push out there.
When we are cut back
that will be it.
I think we will know nothing of the busy earth.

We are not growing things.
We must make do,
speak the leaves we lack
dream forests and raise parapets
that may stand out of nature.

If this tree has a gift,
it is always to be revealed.

If this tree has a meaning,
it is what I have given it.

Wind Up (2008)

Frail loved declining engine, you
Stumble and slow and halt.
In my dream I take over.
I grasp the winding stem, turn it once,
And you rise up. You move
Briskly toward me.
Your eyes wide open. You are able to laugh.

We are in the world together!
Now you are in my hands.
Through the thrum of time, I am listening.
If you falter, I am here, I am strong.
I have the key.
I will wind and wind and wind.

Union Church Concert (Hyde Park)

In this American notion of a sacred room
rounded and upreaching,
small arches stand on larger arches
flanked by repeating pillars
under long ceilings staves that make me think
of Byzantium or Norway in the Middle Ages.
There is no spire, no pointed cruciform,
no loft or gallery,
just one wide space, expanded
softly by our quiet breathing,
where we listen together, level and lit
by plain white globes in groups of six
on iron rings from six iron chains,
three rows of six from front to back,
and the quiet generosity of light is asserted.

My mother’s hair

Early summer.
I was fifteen and halfway out the door
when you stopped me.

You asked me as a favor
to cut your hair and curl it.
I said I am not a hair dresser.

I’ll tell you how, you replied.
Alien tools were arrayed on the kitchen counter.

I was sullen and clumsy and you
were admired, well dressed, in clothes you made
or altered yourself. A perfectionist.
But that day you had somewhere to go,
and no time, and no one else to turn to.

Your hair was thick in my hands
I felt the warmth beneath.
The brown glowed red where the sun hit it.
One by one you made me pull
the few white strands
so quickly you barely flinched.
Your pale scalp under the heavy waves
was strange and private
until by touch it became as familiar
as the skin of your daily appearance
made pinkish and sweet-smelling
by the pancake makeup
you smoothed on with a small wet sponge.

Awkwardly at the kitchen sink
your neck lay bare on a towel,
your hair spread out against the white
porcelain as I silently poured
water from a saucepan.
Lather, rinse, repeat. I followed directions.

Then you sat on the kitchen chair
while I combed through as gently as I could.
You explained
how to section and where to lay the scissors,
but the wet strands skidded across the blades.
Dark triangles fell to the floor.
Next came plastic curlers like twin bones
of a chicken wing, from which
the hair escaped again and again
until I got the hang of them.

The dryer was a stiff balloon
inflated with noisy heat that became
almost unbearable. From time to time
You turned it off and we waited,
the smell of burning hair around us.

Finally the curlers were unlatched.
Bright coils sprang forth
to be brushed and shaped with my bare hands.
You held a mirror in which we could see each other.
We were both happy.
You were thirty-five years old.

I was proud and thought, how beautiful
was your lively hair, untouched by the cobalt.