Much better, now you’ve climbed the little hill
to sit in solitude until this spill of feelings dissipates:
the overkill of sensory indulgence in a day!
The way the sun keeps gilding hay to gold:
the alchemy of infinitely varied colors, shadows, shapes
in every pebble, puddle, leaf: no relief from their
relentlessly proliferating asymmetric angles, bumps
and curves: the endless importuning of a pressing
strangeness: the painful beauty of its range. Old
is always new now: nothing’s ever through. This is what
the mind imbibes: this is how the revolution of the soul
unfolds: this describes the evolution of an angel.