There is a thing in me that dreamed of trees,
A quiet house, some green and modest acres
A little way from every troubling town,
A little way from factories, schools, laments.
My father, for example,
who was young once
You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
For a hundred miles through the desert repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
One day you finally knew
what you had to do, and began,
though the voices around you
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
Whispering to each handhold, "I'll be back,"
I go up the cliff in the dark. One place
I loosen a rock and listen a long time
till it hits, faint in the gulf, but the rush
When the blackberries hang
swollen in the woods, in the brambles
nobody owns, I spend
She steps into the dark swamp
where the long wait ends.
The secret slippery package