Reflection

There's a line of light on the lake through the sieving rain,

and swallows, skimming the face of the rushy meadow,

the grid of the walls is loosening and falling away,

scrawny cows tread routes though the boggy ground.

The terrain external mirrors 

   the terrain internal.

The swallows, skimming the face of the rushy meadow,

like thoughts, breaking the line of the line of light.

Visiting

Sometimes these days I fold my hands and sit quietly,

a good child.

I think of hair ribbons and fear.

An upright chair beside a half-closed door.

Dishes and bosoms. Voices.

Closed things laid out and looked at and decided.

                §

Why would I want to belong

Anywhere?

The gardener is angry. They don't like his vision.

They stand beside a slate-blue rock,

bosoms high, arms folded.

They say he'll have to dig it up and start again.

The gardener has failed, it isn't zen.

The mud grained in his hands won't let him be.

But what's the use is flesh if we're not in it?

Of life, if no one's there to burn with living?