[1]

By the creek The necessary suffering Of love is in evidence – These waters feed the fish More religiously than most Religions can or do.

[2]

Little bird out of your nest, What is the name and shape Of the God you invoke In your squawks?

Or does the mystery, Which we foolish men Furiously partition into endless hollow Shells and rarely encounter face to face, Stand indivisible in your world?

Little bird, teach me again about The spasms you feel in your unformed wings, Those of hunger and those of love.

[3]

I come back from the afternoon into the shaded cool of this room. I was walking in a forest, urging my soul, that blunt instrument I have been given to perform the autopsy of everyday mysteries, into an awakening of itself.

I stopped at the point where Lullwater falls and saw in the shallows just behind the rock ledge a shoal of fish; silver bodies with edges tinted in crimson, dark bones in standing in relief against their flesh - they carry their shadows within their skins – travel further and further into the green woods, which were trapped in the water before it fell over rock as foam, spray and noise. One always hears water fall at the top of the hill before one sees it and then reaches it at the bottom. This perhaps is also the trick to reach God, which the mad people among us have perfected.