for Richard Exner

Mind
dwells on apocalypse,
the body digs

the shutting of a gate,
the turning of a sod, a page
once done is
done, a work complete

the change,
the travelling
come down to this,
the great circle of days,
recurrence of the simplest things.

Between two slabs
I dig a wine-cellar,
floor it with brick,
wall it
with brick and board

soon I will stock it, build
a new shed over it,
soon
the eggplants will rise, tomatoes
push up behind the basil,
and my child will be walking.

You write from California
astonished at my faith in Things

What can I say?

There is a place, a border
where chill leaves the words,
where even the fire leaves
and all that is said becomes hopeless.

Deeper still
there is a place where it begins again.