We were wide; the way was narrow;
we could feel trees ripening, cherries or no,
and we found the pleasures of dreamlife
unrecognizable as fruitful
except inside ourselves. Things increased
by layering: trees ripened, it got dark;
it was too difficult to wish for less,
to clear ourselves away in readiness for a future happiness
where we might be reformed as something lit and slight and clear.
Some days we felt each seed complicit with us, privately,
and gemstones were, and rain. So it was strange
when we saw tall trees make water-movements in the air,
or we saw a peony withhold one blade of fire,
a pearl's interstice with dirt, rain's tongue.
We felt what entered others cross to pass into our sleep
whether we were known or not,
to show how slight, how variable any body was.
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