…The Whole Place Goes Up
Today with Spring here finally we ought to be living
outdoors with our friends.
Let’s go to those strangers in the field
and dance around them like bees from flower to flower,
Building in the beehive air
our true hexagonal homes.
Someone comes in from the outside saying,
‘Don’t play music just for yourselves.’
Now we’re tearing up the house like a drum,
collapsing walls with our pounding.
We hear a voice from the sky calling our lovers
and the odd lost people. We scatter lives.
We break what holds us, each one a blacksmith
heating iron and walking to the anvil.
We blow on the inner fire.
With each striking we change.
The whole place goes up, all stability gone to smoke.
Sometimes high, sometimes low, we begin anywhere,
we have no method.
We’re the bat swung by powerful arms.
Balls keep rolling from us, thousands of them underfoot.
Now we’re still. Silence also is wisdom, a flame
hiding in cotton wool.