If You Think You Choose, Choose How That Sun Comes Up

A braid of bronze,
A braid of gold,
The third thread rose—
Watch how this goes.

Those cupped skies hold
All the world’s shows—
Each braid of bronze,
Each brace of swans,

The whole world scrolled
Up in slow dawns,
Old tints you know—
One thread of rose,

One braid of bronze.
The wind’s so cold.
Watch how this goes.
The last blaze gold.

All Is Glass

How you want it to be,
How you fear it will be,
How it seems that it is—

It’s all frail. It’s all glass.
The whole stays whole; the whole
Won’t end. The parts don’t last.

If you stepped out of it,
If you could, you could see
What you watch in the night,

One sprawl of light and dark,
Black gaps, fierce bursts, bright sparks.
For what it’s worth, you are.

One Thought, One Grace

The brain is in a dark box
Called the skull. It has to guess
From the bits and bobs of waves

Sent in from the points that touch,
What kind of world is out there.
The brain’s main job is what’s next.

So how does it do that? Past.
It fits new past to old past,
The last past to the first past,

And, not that you know it yet,
It says, this past will be next.
And what are you for in this?

You’re here for the songs and tales,
The codes that have their own past,
Old poems that said grace saves face.