Live in a perpetual great astonishment.
You must believe a poem is a holy thing, a good poem, that is.
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
I can hear, underground, that sucking and sobbing, In my veins, in my bones I feel it,- The small water seeping upward, The tight grains parting at last. When sprouts break out, Slippery as fish, I quail, lean to beginnings, sheath-wet.
I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart of form.
The fields stretch out in long unbroken rows. We walk aware of what is far and close. Here distance is familiar as a friend. The feud we kept with space comes to an end.