The poem
All summer I wandered the fields that were thickening every morning,
every rainfall, with weeds and blossoms, with the long loops of the shimmering, and the extravagant-
pale as flames they rose and fell back, replete and beautiful- that was all there was-
and I too once or twice, at least, felt myself rising, my boots
touching suddenly the tops of the weeds, the blue and silky air- listen, passion did it,
called me forth, addled me, stripped me clean then covered me with the cloth of happiness-
I think there is no other prize, only rapture the gleaming, rapture the illogical the weightless-
whether it be for the perfect shapeliness of something you love- like an old German song- or of someone-
or the dark floss of the earth itself, heavy and electric. At the edge of sweet sanity open such wild, blind wings.