for Willis Barnstone
is the moment the gods should step out from inside the lives of things, and here inside my own house, tear down every wall. A fresh page, like a flyleaf turning over that could be a shovel-full of air, then a sod— only the wind can accomplish it: a field of breath. O gods, you gods, who sleep within things, who so often used to visit; who rise serenely, and whom we picture at pool’s edge washing neck and face, you weightlessly add your restfulness to what already brims: our too-full lives. Gods, let it be once again your morning. We invoke you. You alone are wellspring. The world wakes with you, first things shine, though we failed you, in every fault and flaw.