Inhale     breathe deeply and

there the mountain

is there are

flowers streams flow

simple bright goods clutter

the ravines the

air is thin & heady

the mountain

respires, is equal to

the whole

So much, is just

by pulse then

the sky clears, again

love is a term

of shadow and

the shade flickers

here, too

Since otherwise snap &

a false a hope

less polythene lung

when so easily the

town fits to

the stride, we look

at pots of jam we

look upward

And so when it does

rain & will glide

down our necks like

glances into

the soul, drop

lets work their

way forward the sinus

is truly the scent

of the earth, upraised

Who shall make the

sigh, of the

waters, sign of

rain & coming down

over the ridge

the entire air a nod

to for

tune, who else

The leaves make drops, drop

down the great

tent of falling, the

twigs are inside

us, we the

branches beyond which

by which through which

ever the

entire brightness ex

tends

Do not deny this halo

the shouts are

against nothing we all

stand at variance

we walk slowly if it

hurts we rant it

is not less than true oh

love I tell you so

As now, a term less than

misty forewarnings

less ready in simple

motions of cloud

we breathe the

same motions of habit

some part of the sky

is constant, that old

tune, Sonny Boy

Foot, how you press

me to keep that

old contact alive

the repeated daily sentiment

of pace so

grim, always that

untrusting silence

And the hill is a

figure, dust in the

throat

did you say that

or was

it merely spoken

as love a thirst for

this and both together the

morning

The whole cloud is bright

& assembled now

we are drawn by simple

plea, over

the membrane and its

folded parts

into the point, and touch the

air streaming away