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.