1 
The anxious bird in the wild
       spring green
is anting, which means,
       in my orchard
he has opened his wings
       over a furious

anthill and will take up
       into the delicate
ridges of quince-yellow
       feathers
a number of tiny, angry
       creatures

that will inhabit him, bewildered
       no doubt,
traveling deep
       into the air
on this feathery planet,
       new life….

We don’t know why
       they do it.
At times they’ll take on
       almost anything
that burns, spreading
       their wings

over coals, over cigarette
       butts,
even, mistakenly, on bits
       of broken glass.
Meanwhile the light keeps
       stroking them

as if it were love. The garden
       continues its work
all round them, the gradual
       openings that stand
for death. Under the plastic
       groundcover the human

garden grows: help-sticks
       and knots, row
after row. Who wouldn’t want
       to take
into the self
       something that burns

or cuts, or wanders
       lost
over the body?

                              2 
At the end of Werner Herzog’s
       Woyzeck
after the hero who
       we love
who is mad has
       murdered

the world, the young
       woman
who is his wife,
       and loved her,
and covered himself 
       with blood,

he grows frightened
       by how quickly
she softens and takes on the shape
       of the soil.
In the moonlight he throws
       his knife

into the wide river
       flowing beside them
but doesn’t think it has
       reached deep
enough so goes in
       after it

himself. White as a knife,
       he goes in after it
completely. The trees are green.
       The earth
is green. The light
       is sick

with green. Now that
       he’s gone
the woman is a tiny
       gap
in green. Next day,
       in slow

motion, the undertakers and
       philosophers
(it is the Age of
       Reason)
wander through the tall
       and glossy

ferns and grasses
       looking for
the instrument. It’s spring.
       The air is
gold. Every now and then
       they lift

the white sheet they have
       laid to see
what death is. They are
       meticulous,
the day is everything
       they have.

                            3 
How far is true
       enough?
How far into the
       earth
can vision go and
      still be

love? Isn’t the
       honesty
of things where they
       resist,
where only the wind
       can bend them

back, the real weather,
       not our
desire hissing Tell me
       your parts
that I may understand
       your body,

your story. Which is why
       we have
characters and the knife
      of a plot
to wade through this
       current. Now

it’s blossoms
       back to back
through the orchard.
       A surf
of tenderness. There is
       no deep

enough. For what we want
       to take
inside of us, whole orchard,
       color,
name, scent, symbol, raw
       pale

blossoms, wet black
       arms there is
no deep enough.