Like cloud-mad grass piercing the air’s warm gown
On sun-drunk days, our actions sometimes mow
Unknown into strange atmospheres—we halt mid-flow,
Stopped by surprise as pain’s now-empty form
Fills with forgetful pleasure, water-soft and marrow-
Deep. Was it some goddess from
Her mountains dropped this nectar down
On us poor bees, or did some dense atomic tryst throw
Off its sparks to kindle in our nerves? What follows
Is that fire leaves no reason
Nor gives reckoning for the leaf warm
Or the body burning, but only dances, beautiful as
When insight in its web of light has spun
The dust of earth against the Lethean sun.
Just Poems 