My secrets cry aloud.I have no need for tongue.My heart keeps open house,My doors are widely swung. An epic of the eyes My love, with no disguise.

My truths are all foreknown, This anguish self-revealed. I’m naked to the bone, With nakedness my shield.

The light comes brighter from the east; the caw Of restive crows is sharper on the ear.

And soon a branch, part of a hidden scene,The leafy mind, that long was tightly furled,Will turn its private substance into green,And young shoots spread upon our inner world.

He loops in crazy figures half the night Among the trees that face the corner light. But when he brushes up against a screen, We are afraid of what our eyes have seen: For something is amiss or out of place When mice with wings can wear a human face.

This urge, wrestle, resurrection of dry sticks,Cut stems struggling to put down feet,What saint strained so much,Rose on such lopped limbs to a new life?

Nothing would sleep in that cellar, dank as a ditch

Nothing would give up life:Even the dirt kept breathing a small breath.

I always felt mean, jogging back over the logging road, As if I had broken the natural order of things in that swampland;Disturbed some rhythm, old and of vast importance,By pulling off flesh from the living planet;As if I had committed, against the whole scheme of life, a desecration.

Like witches they flew along rows,Keeping creation at ease;With a tendril for needleThey sewed up the air with a stem;They teased out the seed that the cold kept asleep, —All the coils, loops and whorls.They trellised the sun; they plotted for more than themselves.