The wind is a word which needs the earth
To make it speak
It contains so much time
It can explode through the trees
And devastate communities
It can kill power lines
And dispute with oceans
Such a small word
Almost without a vowel
Almost you would think a stone
In the middle of a desert
Not the swirling sweeping air around it

The glass tree has shattered
The inside is growing out
Leaf-shards lay in ruins
Vines produce crystal grape clusters
That fracture at a touch

The door to nature is open
Creation careens off cultivation
A glass sun seeds an unknown ground

Cut-glass is green
The roof glazing azure
The open light opens all the more

I would step inside
But the tree is still shedding
And splinters of light
Might infect me with eternity

You’re not dying at all, life is rushing in
birds fly through the glass unhurt
the blueness bathes you in spirit waters
the leaves are laughing with you
shadows have names you’ll learn in time

This is what we’ve been taught wrong
repeating over and over in song
dying is the abundance I’m beholding
not a body I’m withholding
but the transparency of life unfolding

Nothing is so still as a dead fawn.
Not even a stone can lie so still
Or draw all the light in the forest
To its own sad and resting self.
Infant of the woods, hooved angel,
Newborn of silence, spotted sister
Of death’s meadow, child of Artemis,
Now gentler than ever,
Now more attentive than the stars.

Spring shadows at the cemetery,
two old men, both with walkers,
meeting on a green transcendental plane
quietly conversing
along a row of headstones and graves.

I had the strong impression
that spirits were talking,
that they were there all the time,
that I was close enough to know.

Sunlight through the trees
A blue canvas
Birds crisscrossing
The day a “pure serene”
A colour Keats invented
The radiance
Of angels in the blue
And the sadness
With which they gaze upon us

When the dreamer is cut open
The surgeons are swallowed by the dream
The medium crossed over
And was devoured by ants
Acupuncture needles
Go through to where the dream fades
A masseuse became
A mannequin without hands
In the sleep laboratory
Centipedes infest computers
Neither therapy nor soporifics
Could cure him
He dreamt until the day he died
And then he could not tell
If he was dreaming or the world

A strange distance for anyone,
driving between the lines
of being well or ill,
following traffic to the end.

Red lights are reprieves,
yellow goes both ways,
green condemns you to go,
stop signs lie to your face.

You drive on and wait.