I long for the imperishable quiet at the heart of form.
To follow the drops sliding from a lifting oar, Head up, while the rower breathes, and the small boat drifts quietly shoreward.
In a dark time, the eye begins to see / I meet my shadow in the deepening shade...Dark, dark my light, and darker my desire.
Wake the happy words.
(I measure time by how a body sways.)
Should we say the self, once perceived, becomes the soul?