bright dust
POPPIESThe poppies send up their
orange flares; swaying
in the wind, their congregations
are a levitation
and lacy leaves.
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't
There isn't a place
in this world that doesn't

sooner or later drown
in the indigos of darkness,
but now, for a while,
the roughage
shines like a miracleas it floats above everything
with its yellow hair.
Of course nothing stops the cold,
black, curved bladefrom hooking forward—
of course
loss is the great lesson.
when it's done right,is a kind of holiness,
palpable and redemptive.
Inside the bright fields,
and what are you going to do—what can you do
about it—
deep, blue night?
Labels: alfonse mucha, galle, georges fouquet, hiroshige ando, Kunisada Utagawa, mary oliver, ohara koson, poetry, rene lalique, silver studio























