The Secrets of Poetry

Very long ago when the exquisite celedon bowl
that was the mikado’s favorite cup got broken,
no one in Japan had the skill and courage
to mend it. So the pieces were taken back
to China with a plea to the emperor
that it be repaired. When the bowl returned,
it was held together with heavy iron staples.
The letter with it said they could not make it
more perfect. Which turned out to be true.

Etiology

Cruelty made me. Cruelty and the sweet smelling earth,
and the wet scent of hay. The heave in the rumps
of horses galloping. Heaven forbid that my body not
perish with the rest. I have smelled the rotten wood
after rain and watched maggots writhe on
dead animals. I have lifted the dead owl while it
was still warm. Heaven forbid that I should be saved.

The Spirit Neither Sorts nor Separates

There is a flower. We call it God.
It closes and opens and dies.
We still call it God. There is a stone
that does nothing and is still God.
Everything is of Heaven. There is mud
around the edge of the pond.
There are reeds, water lilies
and a few dragonflies. The pond is light
and dark and warm because of the sun.
Hidden fish. The air itself.
The bush outside is full of three and four
kinds of birds. Winter birds instead
of leaves. The snow over ground is enough.
The birds hopping and feeding
and departing are flowers,
a mouth singing, the way your heart was.