(after Rumi) Waking this morning into The first hints of fall, light On the ground and some Salvaged pieces of skull Bone, leaves catching The first flame, wind from Southeast ruffling Buds of yellow chrysanthemums: Light pushing out From wet earth,

My inert body, instead of singing The dreams just seen and just Lost, As it kneels to kiss the ground, A dulcimer cradled in the arms.

Has been rifling through Piles, stacks, heaps Of books, hunting communion That can be found only with Another empty and frightened Body or god.

2 A.M. moonlight. The train has stopped out in a field. Far off sparks of light from a town, flickering coldly on the horizon.

As when a man goes so deep into his dream he will never remember he was there when he returns again to his view.

Or when a person goes so deep into a sickness that his days all become some flickering sparks, a swarm, feeble and cold on the horizon.

The train is entirely motionless. 2 o'clock: strong moonlight, few stars.

I have been walking a while
on the frozen Swedish fields
and I have seen no one.

In other parts of the world
people are born, live and die
in a constant human crush.

To be visible all the time ¡Ö to live
in a swarm of eyes ¡Ö
surely that leaves its mark on the face.
Features overlaid with clay.

The low voices rise and fall
as they divide up
heaven, shadows, grains of sand.

I have to be by myself
ten minutes every morning,
ten minutes every night,
and nothing to be done!

We all line up to ask each other for help.

Millions.

One.