Untitled (“What a day this is…”)

The clouds striding across the sky like lions upon a plain The long manes of the hills rising all along their backs For God’s sake–Friends I have And in the swordlike swish of an eyelash The widest, deepest silks are irredeemable And individual voices flapping on the wind I am the milkweed pod, scraped hollow, Or that which has its home there Peering from a boat at mooring in the air To see the silk umbrellas tire and furl Or tip to tip blow through the middle distances But those that ever found their way to me Were doves teetering on a new cote’s edge Who, having sheathed themselves Spun out determinate as thistledown And forced back as much emptiness with their wings Twirled far, and left to see Nothing but a pair of trees Talking into the curve of their branches Strolling beside the path and going somewhere