The other side of the "sacred" is the sight of your beloved in the underworld, dripping with maggots.
When making an axe handle
the pattern is not far off.
The mercy of the West has been social revolution; the mercy of the East has been individual insight into the basic self/void.
My Grandmother standing wordless fifteen minutes Between rows of loganberries, clippers poised in her hand.
All those years and their moments— Crackling bacon, slamming car doors, Poems tried out on friends, Will be one more archive, One more shaky text.
I try to hold both history and wilderness in mind, that my poems may the true measure of things and stand against the unbalance and ignorance of our times.
In the 40,000 year time scale we're all the same people. We're all equally primitive, give or take two or three thousand years here or a hundred years there.
Will be but corpses dressed in frocks, who cannot speak to birds or rocks.
You run into people who want to write poetry who don't want to read anything in the tradition. That's like wanting to be a builder but not finding out what different kinds of wood you use.
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