The nothing is a great mover
words like stolen goods
move toward their place
in a sentence you don’t know:
will not be advised and
not without advice
those reckonings our own
shadows in the house of night
make this rose-garden that.
“It will be news from behind the horizon”
seeing it through to the east,
the actual, Taliessin (or was it Duncan)’s It reminds me
we know so little, but if you thrust
your sword over the doorstep you can
hear the night scream. I stroll under the Cairo lunes
recalling we don’t know what trees are
or the varieties. Stroll under my green desk-lamp
discharging its carefully planned prophecy
and will still when the black claw
from the open window whisks the year’s foal away.
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