Of rough materiality
Such stuff as we are made,
Pulled up from stubborn ash,
Rendered fully into flesh,
Flesh unto flesh,
Solid, steady, burning,
Tearing through the mesh
Of spirit shroud,
Made up of roots and coal,
Hard and hot;
The thingness of the soul.
To mediate the space:
The tugging trout,
The bear’s black
Inquisitive nose,
The scent of cork
Purple with age,
Rosemary, sage,
The clang of kitchen things,
The beating of the owl’s
Shadow enshrouded wings,
Pheasant, woodcock,
The robin’s eggs,
The woman at the bar,
Her fine long legs
In all this, oddly,
Peace;
The way out;
Or, perhaps, in;
Still presence
In the crazy fires
Of appetite;
All dreams revealed
In each wild part—
The spinning compass
Of the human heart
