And that language that parts the future from the past
the poet slips into, people the same pulse
the sounds around the poem—was it ?—
saxophone and mandolin sounds on the radio,
a grammar of trees in the wind in the leaves
in ecstasies of grace, this company of —
you, at first sight; you—a language,
the touch a language; beauty's
eyes, your eyes, unclose me anywhere I am.