of magazine covers
and clothes from my seventeenth summer,
of black monks smiling
moving lightly through deep gardens,
of God opening slowly
like saffron lit petals—
and myself thinking, yes,
There is an amazing silence.
I become large and bored with sitting here.
I roam the house, watch glutted birds
peg leg on the lawn, peck after
each other for crumbs.
The walls breathe and tremble
with a stout wind from rich evergreens.
When I try to be calm,
every part of my skin itches.
My stomach quarrels noisily,
its juices working against itself.
I force myself to sit
very still, feel my own breathing.
My blood thins.
I sense a pouring out of myself
and become fluid.
Thoughts grow spare
yet flash through me
like bright heat lightning
on a dry, summer day.
Everything I think of is profound.