Poem of the Week

              There is a sound

that is a whole of many parts,

a sorrowless transparency, like luck,

that opens in the centre of a thing.

An eye, a river, fishheads, death,

gold in your pocket, and a half-wit

son: the substance of the world

is light and blindness and the measure

of our wisdom is our love.

Our diligence: ten fingers and

a healthy set of lungs. Practise

ceaselessly: there is

one art: wind

in the open spaces

grieving, laughing

with us, saying

improvise.