Atoms


I
Here, where the sky sells its soul to the meadows,
we seem dazzled by it, the hydrangea's drawn-out
shadow, the way it lengthens like prayers,
like a priest's welcoming hands, like a dawn reluctant to
end, to loose its vermillion-yellow-blue too soon.


II
Evening song, lark song, dawn song: it
shivers, inside me; echoes, through the meadows.

Soon, you say, and mean it, soon we'll promenade down
a boulevard. And I believe you. And I trust
you. And I want to, I think; I want what we want
as I lie down on what the humans call (as if it were they
who were the world's saviours, lords, or gods
even, when, in reality, they are nothing more
than small pieces in a widening scheme.)
—I want what we want as I lie down on what the humans call Grass.



And softly the wind passes.
Softly the world vows for
silence.


III
In an evolving world we are always
the same: we are
what keeps the world from falling a-
part, we are shapelessnesses within
any abstraction, which you think
could be the wind whistling through
leaves at dawn, the light—passable—passing
from its source, to its target; it could be
time, universe, those human feelings

we lack; it could be

Don't, fretter. Life is too short for small worries.