He is pruning the privet

of sickly sorrow desolation
in loose pieces of air he goes clip clip clip
the green blooming branches fall—‘they’re getting out
of hand’ delirious and adorable what a switch
we perceive multiple
identities when you sing so beautifully the shifting
clouds You are not alone is this world
not a lone a parallel world of reflection
in a window keeps the fire burning
in the framed mandala, the red shafted flicker
sits on the back of the garden chair in the rain
the red robed monks downtown in the rain a rainbow arises

simple country practices thunder
lightning, hail and rain eight Douglas Iris
ribbon layers of attention

So constant creation of ‘self’ is a tricky
mess He is pruning the loquat, the olive
which looks real enough in the damp late morning air
May 15, 1995