—Here I am like Jacob,
fallen from the ladder
that holds finally this angelic roofer—
and suddenly the only thing real to me
is that vine of grapes.
I saw you kissing bruises
such as little girls complain of
who you’d lift clear off the ground
to dance.
When I was a child and left alone
I had a funny way of using my eyes:
I saw the nearest flowers
as if they were twice their distance.
And these small suns were untouchable
and travelling,
travelling away.
And then it would be Sunday,
day of things withheld.
I’d stand below the church doors
and it is they, I think, I liked most
in religion—
immense doors and my vacillation
between the balcony inside
and flights of birds.
Great spaces, I’m thinking of for you,
as you seem to ask,
vast intervals.
Extract
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