I imagine, beyond fog, a sea of islands,
Grave with the celebrations of the young
Learning responsible voice, who naked stand,
Shafts of clear being, in the wind’s repose.
I imagine, clothed in pattern, a free land
Of equal gifts, where the increasing tree
Affords its nourishment gladly, in ripe wisdom,
And is made sacred by the accepting hand.
How in that place of known formalities,
Those accurate islands sheathed in harmonious sea,
The purposes of occasion daily quicken
To the center of the fruit, to the bright seed.
I imagine, beyond the promiscuous water
That sucks at my step, beyond the driftwood-smeared
State of these tides, a community of islands,
Where the vein’s pulse under the hiding skin is bared
And the body stands free of catchments, in its own song
Reserved, answering its attendant parts,
Tree, town, and shoal, clothed in their understanding.
I imagine the grace given the silken young
To accept their blood as an interior music
Of laws, as they accept the flowering tree
That wills to live with decorum in those islands
In its own sureness of its relevancy.