Such an evening
as in the stillness of which one hears landscapes
steaming from the trains of the spirit.

Flying out of the window, birds
become airplanes
that build a row of cities on my pointing finger.
Across the veil of this moment
the rooftop flies a kite.
Every vein sways drunk,
every limb's a swing.

Such an evening
as when I see the Buddha licking an ice-cream in my palm;
don't see
but become
the camaraderie of crickets that can only be heard
in the air of being
in my blood.

Such an evening
(it's nothing to me)
that I can hear the stillness.

Stillwater, 1974.