The Poet As a Man Mocked by Dreams

So! His mind had been snapped
up by turtles,
an unheard-of soup, last night
the night before, he had spilled the beans
to the paper staring at him blankly,
a real mess, no matter, i am a poet,
i like to fish, fresh air
feel out the sun, deep cool wells, go on

through tall reeds, banking
on the river

she had said, be careful
the moonbeams,
the road narrowing
along the river and the long grass
gather me
about your knees,
the good, black earth.

later
in the white house,
cobwebs and a lizard's
tail. please eat this
apple.

on the wall, a black
form, weeding.

deep eyes, a neck
braided with wrinkles:
my mother, she said
do drink this water.

no, just sunlight, please.
then the night, a clumsy
spy, a mock turtle losing
its cover.

and a strange cold inside.

(from Sentences, 1976)