Ice Bergs, Not Antarctica

Here now is a prelude


Still,
I am heeding the words coming from the high places
And the low, buried places
As in the troughs of the dunes and the ancient ways
Where many bents of humans planted trees
Aware of rows and delineations of order
There were many who never transgressed
The cast gates of cities with their watchmen
And those esteemed who processed
Down the only allylanes where the sun would reach
Creek beds change form over silent, wise
Durations of time which never begin or end
And once there were terrific birds on the cliffs
With spans of wings like boughs of trees
And they never flew
Off of and in to the crag and draft
Many of us continue to leap with uttering and songs
Knowing not of flight but of gravity
And all that defies it

Sweep up to this height; I have made a place
In the sand where I might wait and seek you out
In a city of its own lines in the craze of night
Bend now, and bury
Meet the horizon line and with frail twins of feet, run.