I need to live high on the horse
On the high road, the hawk trail
Where the dust is, which rises
In scratchy clouds
Like nebulae spirals,
In shells of what is recorded
Of the sights and touches we gave,
What created the views and access grids,
The novels and landscapes contained
Of the continuing generation like
A mandala ever erased in the actual.
The vista builds itself in monasteries of green
From the details. We add our own,
Some unique savor, some sharing of dirt
With all that calls but is never moved.
It's only me, the pacer, measuring
Like the meter's narrow gate
So heaven's kingdom, the utility,
Can turn on the water of life already
All around, the Tao, the wordless
That words alone turn into form.
