The Meadow Where All Things Grow According To Their Own Design Poem by John Wieners

Destiny lies behind our forces
and what lives in the soul
dies not. It inhabits our dreams
as perpetual as light.

As the spring grass flowers,
it sprouts out in hair on our chin
and keeps birds thin
with the perpetual gnawing of desire.

The higher one goes
up the angelic ladder
remains the minute bits
and ends of our life.

Seeds there to recur when we
are most unaware.
Old faces, letters crop up again.
Words from our poems

Menace the night