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.