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Doorstep) Lightning) WaifDreaming Who can tell who was born ofwhat? I go sitting on the doorsteps ofunknowns And ask, and hear nothing From the rhythmical ghosts ofthose others, Or from myselfwhile I am there, but only The solid shifts ofdrumming made ofheart. I come always softly, My head full oflingering off-prints Oflightning-vital, engendering blank, The interim spraddling crack the crowning rollback Whited-out ex nihilo and I am as good as appearing The other time: I come ofa root-system offire, as it fires Point-blank at this hearthstone and doorstep: there is A tingling oflight-sensitive hairs Between me: my clothes flicker And glow with it, under the bracketing split Ofsky, the fasting, saint-hinting glimmer, The shifting blasts ofecho, relocating, And ofan orphaning blaze I have been stressed, and born, and stamped Alive on this doorstep. I believe it between cloud And echo, and my own chosen-and-sifted footstep Arriving, engendered, endangered, loving, Dangerous, seeking ground. From Time Deborah for Years at the Piano My hands that were not born completely Matched that struck at a hurt wire upward Somewhere on the uncentered plain Without cause: my hands that could not befriend Themselves, though openly fielded: From Time / 425 ...


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