After Susan Stewart
I sometimes think of another place, another world, another life,
somewhere with wild things hurtling through thickets,
where the notions of Goodness and Happiness aren’t so ill-formed,
where time is silent, waiting, and the brain can construct what it needs,
where the future does not arrive wearing the look of the past,
where the morning light is cast drifting through branches,
refusing all shape and measure.
Somewhere more miraculous than made,
somewhere filled with the rage of flowers in May.