The spiritual histories.

Peter Paul Rubens- Jupiter and Callisto (Flemish 1611-13)

To grind is, yes, please,  to eat what has humbly fallen,
And ground in the kinks of a grinder.

These goldless histories, Dear Light, are
Spiritual histories.

And this and me and
Gold are not skin--

They are spiritual skin.

And you,
You are not who you were when I saw you.

Yes.

At the wheel,

Turning around,

To say yes.

A recycled effort.

The curse blooms in wild kisses.

Breezes dream from everywhere--

Without courtesy.

Once was an archway, or a wave dismantling the shore,

Singing, insignificantly,

"I have hurt you, my Sister, have I not."

Lake shed.

I have been asleep for so long where

Mosses drench the brush--

Their sopping residues cotton the shade lying

Beneath me as

I am upon them:

Meanwhile,

Or eternally, an orbital task is asked of circles on the lake waters

Just once, and is

Expected and expected

And stalked,

Not so

Much as many times or often,

The surface storms, but when the

Equidistance returns

And the mirror is gradually, confidently

Retroubled.