I find no sleep, in my sleep,
That there is no such thing as silence
Or darkness, to willingly dissolve.
If anything, nature is all over,
The actions of the wind unleashing
The sun on earth as though rivers
Had never existed before.

The gossamer sounds of rainbow bombs,
Church bells with wet ropes, the trembling,
Unlistenable city continuously ringing
Old sunlight from the thinner sky there.
Its original churning surfaces end in white.
The thawing sand yet red with day
Like Jupiter bursting the eye to the eye.

The stars calm down despite body glimmer
While the smeared sound in question is like
Blurred lilies, a departing lover, because
Our only nest is our wings. Dwellings below
And fields upstairs for stars and their absences,
Each roof is planted to become
Another level of the garden.

We still do not know how much less nothing
Can be, listening to the lightning that tempts
The sky, singeing the dead air, the predicament
Of its texture. Clouds can feel the work
And plus or minus the past will be reshaped
By a nostalgia for the present. I was myself
And held my petulant garb.

Such a mechanical wife. The angel spirit
Goes from one side of the spiritual bedroom
To the other, reworking every deadline,
Thwarting every repetition. Then he came
With his old proverb and I understood
He had nothing left to say, no words rushing
Against words, one wrapped into another.

The river of the dancing meadow
Of keeping is open, continuance
Of a perpetual waxlight, woman plus house.
People could be heard communicating
Underground, slight swellings to a scenting
Dog. The probable castle just rising
Up by the unenclosed souterrain.

I must desire you, give me leave,
In spring all trees become pregnant,
This spring as you wrote it might be
In a poem called ‘Magdalen Facts’
Addressed to her reflection. The dream
Had no sense of war, the clearest veins
To photograph the angels, angel air.