How Strange It Must Be for Anyone to Get Here at Last

All morning dog in the sun, and the day is bright enough, while
cabbage moths filling the air in tiny clouds above the garden. For
the body, everything has already happened that needs to, hands
waving from every bush. And yet there's another handbook comes
in the mail: Complete Guide to the Good Life. And questions to ask
before doing anything. And somewhere out of sight a jackhammer
that starts up to widen the road in.

Mid-Winter

Mid-winter in the morning light. A few flakes drifting down. No
one about, and nothing moving in the whitening fields, as we look
out, knowing this is the sort of morning that will keep telling us
anything's possible: that we are the vanishing figures on
horseback riding quietly into the new life; or that the whole of it's
already here, like the sight of our perfect bodies naked in the
snowy light.

This Privacy I Feel It's a Sparrow's Nest

A sparrow's nest abandoned in the brown grasses like a baskeet in
the haunted canyons of the southwest. It is soft inside, lined with
hairs taken from the manes of horses. And touching it, I get the
feeling of intimacy, my fingers getting the feeling of being the guest of
another life. It is a privacy like the touching of women, a privacy I
think even the archaeologist cannot penetrate.

Summer

When the tree turns dark inside, and the black snake becomes
a branch, and you cannot see in: the season you go out looking
at night for whatever you've been hiding the whole year.