Every time I touch that passage, I have to read it again,
and every time the wind blows by it investigates
that one deep crevice in the face of the high cliff.
When I see those blooms, I must inhale,
when I count the petals I must forget,
when I stir the waters they must rise
and ask me in a burbling tongue who I am.
If I reach that valley, I must run into it
and make some noise; if I hold back, what am I?
If once I hear the rustle like pages
of you, I am compelled to
I will never know, but I must, I must, I must.
When you drink warm milk with a golden strand of clover honey
swirled into it, spiraled, doesn't it slip down your throat
and land in the endless red field?