~~ ~~ ~~

Somewhere
beyond when and how,
insistant moss and inaudible skies,
is his name, unhurried letters in soft rain,
the opacity of substance on blown glass,
an uninterupted sense of wet soil on seeds,
the long look of verse with a crisp inside drip
of petals on wood, miniature roses, subsequent syllables
with no known geography and their salutary extraction
from my blind earth.


Is
it
possible
to
win
without
first
having
fallen?