On a brain-gray day,
he lay on the hill-slanted solar
array with a southern exposure,
toes in the clover
mixed in with what are these
pentagrammatic sprays
of pinnate leaves.
No clover
here has four leaves:
to each one he says
I have seen you before
in the nuclear hazard
Raking lace
at the fringe of the tide,
raking with fingers
the English and cutwork
and French of the froth,
with the negative black
dwarf sun in her eye echo
eye mirror eye, she,
taking his fingers,
English and Hebrew bones,
bobbin bones,
to lace with her own,
said love, if you like,
but abyss of light.
A field of thistles, díscharging
concentric waves of negative
theology, on a mountainside,
2010, May 23rd (is Whitsuntide),
would certainly
suffice as a source of the ever-obtainable not
enough sought
state of subtle shock
if he’ d close
this computer
and walk up the summit road
until the sea’ s in view. And maybe in
