An easy climate with all the elements,
earth, air, fire, water.
A desperate system solid as it is human.
Dust is falling where dust has climbed.
The sun is patient, moon calm,
the sin of knowledge almost innocence.
Love has become goodwill, as grief has,
as torturing strength has warped to sanity.
Now dustbowl earth completes its nothingness,
every bright image, lark or cardinal,
has dropped its wings, has moulted in disgust.
The lucid mind fumbles to doors and falls.
The crusted eyes tears cannot clarify.
But traveller dust which notices our earth
we totally invite until we die.
Now earth must spin as little as it is
as it has spun before our vast illusion.
Now loves will tumble on dark beds of space.
Loves will tumble now in any case.
But eyes of power, the long mileage to stars
our sleep will dreaden and intensify.
Lovers will love, and all the instant world
will tether joy, creation's sweet pathetic trust,
while our participating marrow
clicks with destroying dust.
The Sea Is Also A Garden
The Ryerson Press, Toronto, 1962