Black and Blue, and: Brown and Gray, 1970

Black and Blue

How can black give
when so whole and utterly without?
Blue must worry, Is black there?
Does black hear what I say into black's ear
every night on earth—this terrible desire
to be brighter? Even if black does hear,
how can I live knowing I'm attached
to absence?

The feeling of security is built
on the premise that black is good,
but if it is not good, why do I stay here, half-lit, sober
against a body of darkness? Yes, there are times
when I wish there were silver or red
somewhere in the field.
But black lays over, stable, quiet,
committed for now.

Brown and Gray, 1970

The sound of wind over sand.
The absence of wind. A bird
on a flower so red the bird grew dark
and disappeared. Not here.
Not here in the world of two shades
balancing ground and night,

over a rendition of earth so quiet
it is clear: there were never any voices.
Just a voice. A time. Time without end.