Cowardice breaks off on its path. Anguish breaks off on its path. The vulture breaks off in its flight.

The eager light runs into the open, even the ghosts take a drink.

And our paintings see the air, red beasts of the ice-age studios.

Everything starts to look around. We go out in the sun by hundreds.

Every person is a half-open door leading to a room for everyone.

The endless field under us.

Water glitters between the trees.

The lake is a window into the earth.

The man on a walk suddenly meets the old giant oak like an elk turned to stone with its enormous antlers against the dark green castle wall of the fall ocean.

Storm from the north. It's nearly time for the rowanberries to ripen. Awake in the night he hears the constellations far above the oak stamping in their stalls

(after DeCamp’s ‘The Blue Kimono’)

There is a wind blowing
Down the avenue’s gullet
	
A gray wind is blowing
Through the black
Hair of two little girls swinging
From the light poles

Is blowing
Through their checkered dresses 
& the creaking shutters of a sky opening 
                          And closing over the round 
Faced sun.

Down in the fields
               A wild wind is blowing
Through the legs of men
Dribbling a soccer ball,  

Is blowing
Through the shirt sleeves 
Of kites, oscillating strings
                Of daydreams  
& an open window at which a woman
                   in a blue kimono, is sitting
And watching

Her sockets filled with crushed blue
Glass,
                 a wind blowing
Through pages of poems

Unwritten.