What is this,
to see nature
through
         nature's eyes?

I roam the fields of word
to pluck out one or two,
a brace against the winter air,
bid adieu to the blind men
of this valley where the king
of sorrow plays the wooing
pigeons' flutes by day, by day,

                    by night the pale fade
of Chi Pai Shi's narcissus bloom;
impassioned dive into this lake
of sealed stars; so remote this eye,

Art revealed as a portal'd mask
where gods we hope to gaze upon
conceal the face of chaos smiling
back at us through some thick, pasty
appliqué:

Space sculpted by time (by change),
by depth. We will call it 'chair' if it
has ledge. 'Lynching' (but not 'death')
if it has rope. We will call it art,
if it has implication. A glaze
part saffron, part design, part ash

(reminding us we are already
in great jeopardy)

from this some order must arise
from this, some world-born myth
from this, from startle to surprise,
and without weld or pin,

by thin air held alone
above the mountain's tip,
our pen dipped
in dusty combs of snow,

we wrest a moment of belonging
from the remote loneliness.
Yes, that's it, that's it, that's it.