The fields of poetry
are of arid exuberance.
In that exile, beneath the absolute sun,
we the blind walk in the sharp-edged
shadow of the word.
To love, like war, leaves behind
To love, like war, leaves behind
devastations in seed,
exuberant fields,
solitudes that grow
wild and unusual.
Alone at dawn
Alone at dawn,
when all the others fade to evening,
I gather flowers in minefields,
and just as the body would burst,
so bursts the soul of the first lights
I devour in the harvest.