Poetry
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| | XIV
For air and seed and empty love, they dance. They do not dance for memory, they are Renewed without thought in the shining glance Which is no gaze, but is the wing’s lodestar.
They die because they live. They are alive Because they died. Their continuity Is in their present flight – they swoop and dive Mindful of their mindless potency,
Probing for comfort, following the way Downwards to equipoise, to bright desire One forearm’s length apart. The shining day Alive as tumbling geometric fire
In the movement of air, seeking the least – The air that breathes the house from the south-east. |