BLUE, BLUE

(I-IV)

(I)

Fog, fog century. Snow falls from oaks.
Snow falls from the oaks, falls into water.
Snow falls through fog, from oaks.
Fog loon calls out, calls. . . calls out. . .

(II)

Long however. Or heron life. Crane wind.
Crane air move through—the heron rooms.
One slow, dark shadow and over heather;
No voices. No voices for song.

(III)

Just now the blackbird flits,
Flies in. To heart, the full heart-blood.
Ears-ringing, cool-over, cold;
There is no there to speak of.

(IV)

Light breaks. Blend, then, dark.
Hold here, hold close to—one; one’s
Own shimmering then—happily forgets.
Lark fall. God. . . so happens again.