Sixty-five years
within this gardened home
dripping with peace,
and bird song,
...
My uncle died.
I am not sure when
nor of what
nor how old he was
...
The sky is quietly dark tonight
and though the silvered moon
peeps shyly
from behind a diaphanous cloud,
...
The art of nature
and the nature of art
explode into a teardrop
of asymmetrical symmetry
...
You,
Flicka,
the horse-angel
of my dreams
...
You went about your something way.
You lit your fire like clockwork every night,
and scattered your spot with your litter,
As though it was your dirty washing, your cushions, your shoes.
...
The day’s tattered, shattered nerves
bathe their wounds in the stillness.
This haven - book-impregnated -
Stimulates my mind,
...