Looking through trees strangely into nature.
A window, an air-conditioner, a wall covered with ivy.
The book on your lap. Your head tilted back.
Like handling cups or pennies, a shovel, a stone.
Like where an arm is found, or where the tangled limbs go.
A bookshop, a fruitstand. You wake up and there you are, and there you are.
“Do we have any cookies, or something nice?”
Toward the east outstretches the shadow. On the left a plywood lake.
Gods and horses playing in the fountain. A conch shell. A robe.
The swallows, the sandstorms, a pink fire in the clouds.
And the generator, the chain and the pulley. Unheard-of laughter and prayer.
The long exhalation. Of baskets and flutes.
Of bracken. Of reed. Of cypress and olive, pelvis and spine.
Three shoes on a doorstep. Of human unfinished.
The spirit in time.