Here is a child wanting a pool back
wanting all the poetry books at once She is
She is not fever-rich
She juts out into the world so her hand
any may safely explode
as a nature
She can’t buy all the poetry books
She has a different kind of money
She is a strider Admire her
So she goes with all the trees All hold their arms
high open to the freezing cold matters
in the thing called a woods
She but no longer a girl
She walks between them All the insane openness
of the arms A cold bitter
A martini of cold
With an olive of colder
It is a madness of the trees
God, the earth is a mattress
and nothing more
I like the made thing,
its intricacies which make me
over in its image, making it.
I like the found thing also,
the impossible moment when the wind blows
until the big green field goes crazy,
so there is nothing to do but watch
and enjoy our own uselessness
and — somehow — use. It’s rather like
a lover riding you astonishingly well.
Up and down like a carousel horse.
There’s nothing to do but be wonderful
down there, under the rippling joy,
to be the world, the ground,
that world-ground every sliding lover wants.
And the great satisfaction in knowing
you are a good ride, a satisfaction indeed.
Up they go again, and now your smile,
down they come, and know yourself
the perfect machine at delicious last.
And you are oiled with the satisfaction
of it. And this and nothing more.