I

Here, where the sky
sells its soul
to the meadows, we seem dazzled by it
by it,

the hydrangea's

stretching shadow,

(the way
it stretches
like prayers,

like a

priest's welcoming
hands, like

a dawn reluctant
to end

too soon.)

II

Soon we promenade
down a boulevard,
I want to, I remember,
I want what we want
as I lie down on

what is called

by humans (as
if it were they
who were the
world's saviors,
or lord, gods,

when in reality
they are nothing more
than small pieces in
a larger

scheme)

—as I lie down on

what the humans' call
grass.

II

II

In an evolving world
we are always

the same: we are

what keeps the world from
falling
apart, shapelessnesses
within any abstraction,

which
could be

the wind whistling
through the 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: You're

only going
in circles.