To love the things that simmer at the bright edge of exactitude.
To love the things that quiver at the dimmer edge of truth.
The firm black lines of a raven
seen against the pillowed whiteness of cloud;
a composition of thrust, desire and voice,
inflamed with purpose.
The perfect balance of bone and air.
At odd intervals we remember the world,
that we are one with this world,
woven into the fabric: a thicket, the dogwood,
spray upon spray of silent blossoms, the eye reels.
A solid gray boundary of gravestones stops us from going too far.