Before all things you were

Before all things you were the

Dance-- a cadence and cadenza

Without form --

Like water and

Air in brass are born -- to be

Nourishment and to become

Song-- edelweiss white like

Keats' dove swimming without

Reflection -- the language without

An inflection of sadness, you are

Like the lillies coursing on

The surface-- but already passing the

Shadow of their flame long eidolons

Into these depths

You come to me shade-like in days

Of relaxation, days of duress

The curtailed mesh of the Firetrees

Falling in unison over the Cyperus

And the fireweed-- above in

Whisper is the flanging

Orange of blossoms and their

Fruition

They fixate the light- transparent

They lance the dusky shadow

Of blue-- lucid, my mind's

Language moving through

It in minuets

Flaring on the sea the algae--

The cambric of your moss and

Mountain meadows

And cooling - the Cyperus and

The vert Eucalyptus

I make of my heart like the brass

Waiting for another song of you

To blow through. I ache without you

Before all things you are

The cadence and the dance

You traffic to me in dreams

You came into being

Older than Adze prior to the Lance

Before the pen- supposed arrow - had to become this

Blunt axe in the hands of these poets

Shifted, before the poets before the

Quinzana and quincunx-

You are ancient as purple maize

That dots the earth wave upon

Wave, interlave into one

Impression

I have wagered my way to find

You-- for always is the Cuneiform

Of your language weaving through

My dreams-- you the formless

Language before being, words bow

Before you-- like the wheat

Bows to wind -- original and

Invisible force born within

Sheaf upon sheaf of me

Courses with evidence of

Your presence

Oh-- and neither the concave

Shelters of wake or dream can

Wreck it. Warmth of the sands piling

On sands and knowing what rest is.

Beneath the artifact of a hidden

Message. Will it ever be found?

Sometimes silence is

Everywhere -- and reading

A poem is all that

Can break it. Then water

Molds the clay, the unmakes it.

That is the intent with which

I ask you to read this poem.

Wherever the lucid day is

Whatever the lucid day is