Two Poems

Mary the Prophetess and My Sixtieth Year

As with all that's illimitably great
I do not measure myself against it, I grow
        towards it as the others
on my road grow, in their own ways, towards.

Tear pressing from my left lid, neutrally,
        cool and cheering: that woke me.
Hang in the trance of being until one
outcome emerges, globed, salt, clear, and hangs!

The sun, the sun, suspended through all years,
here in the manifest the condensed world hangs -
        my parachute bloomed with a jolt
and the spread rocked gently and greatened through branches, roofs, paths.

That was the first drop, wind sound neither trumpet
nor cello, openness the whole value at once,
        and in my grip two braids
...