moving from one room to another      a shocked,
resilient heart, owning nothing, as Yeats says,
perhaps in the depths of the eyes, the latest
image held of a shimmering city,     of breathless
trees grown out of holes in the sidewalk,      of
the cold, bent body of startled thought fallen
solitary, ass over teakettle, or lost in the
whirl of this destiny or that one        do they spin
inside themselves?    like so many gods we are
told are projections of our own violence?   the
hunched beauty covering that possibility       the
bells of the day ring from room to room the
restless mind twists around corners, angles,
over lighted floors, the moment beyond itself
like the single day, April, 1767, Jefferson
planted Carnations, Indian pink, Marygold, Globe
violet, Sensitive plant, Cockscomb, a flower like
Broom, Umbrella, Laurel, Almonds, Muscle plums,
Cayenne pepper, and 12 cuttings of Gooseberries
and the country was Argo, he said,      a solitude
conscious of itself    a green bottle behind the
fan      the giant confined in the body's prison
roams at will among the stars      far, in the
projection of infinite love in a finite room
today, the winter shines             winter-shine
Blake said, 'When Thought is closed in Caves. Then
love shall shew its root in deepest Hell'     out
of perspective     out of the picture    not in the frame
'I cannot,' he wrote, 'consider death as anything
but a removing from one room to another.'