. . . Swoop of hawk – 
or mind’s adjustment

to sight – memory?
Air unrelieved, unlived?

Begun again, begin 
again the play

of could, the lift
of sudden cliff,

the place in place – 
the way it was again.

Go back a day,
take everything, take time

and play it back
again, the staggering 

path, ridiculous, uncertain
bird, blurred, fuzzy

fog – or rocks which
seem to hang in

imperceptible substance
there, or here,

in thought?  This thinking
is a place itself

unthought, which comes
to be the world.