Love, let me be in your light
But no, so briefly — the grass so grown
  Let spire up a grassgrown dome
  —Nor, of ancient clay baked out of sight
   Let the maiden stillwarm pastures slight—
    For since all things must fade, must must make night
     All must be loved as light

2

Who is that speaks between the spokes
Before the host vain croaks—?

  Who panoplies past parodies
  Dismissive — like dawn strikes the seas
  To sink again beneath the seams. . .?

    And though I have often dreamed
    Always, already, endlessly. . .

3

—And so I found Krishnu by the Thames
Upon her banks, quite physically:— the mud above his fauxglass frame
     Iconoclast's refrain
          —so read a book of Watts-his-name
            sat topless in the turning rain
             And Lo the body's breath became.

4

Love, let me lee in your light
And O, so sweetly — the tilt of your feet,
  Amida's happy leap,
    December when the streets are sloshed and slush with sleet—