At autumn equinox,
we make a fire
in the courtyard: sparks
 
gust into the black air,
and all seasons are enfolded
in these flames:
 
snow gathers and tips the lilac twigs;
a stinkhorn rises
out of dirt below a water spout;
 
ants climb the peony stalks;
and, gazing into coals,
I skydive and pass through
 
stages of youth: at first,
I climb a tower and,
looking out, find the world tipped;
 
then I dash through halls:
if ripening is all,
what can the dead teach us?
 
We who must rage and lust,
hurtle zigzagging between cars
in traffic, affirm
 
the call to abandon illusions
is a call to abandon
a condition which requires illusions;
 
and, as I pull the cord,
spring rips and blooms;
on landing, I sway on earth.