As if I stood in the long blond wild oats
of twilight, singing with the crickets;

as if by pounding a midnight drum
I fixed the stars in their sockets;

as if at dawn I gathered bracken dew
and fed the last sequoia; as though by afternoon

my shallow curve of life stretched
to form the perfect arc—echoing

the passage of the moon.

. . . . .

Sinister Wisdom, 2007