Center
Voiceless hold upon the green fig, riled passion disturbs the silent twig; worn as water the summit jet returns to the viable wet jungle of cold vetch, struggling to keep warm upon the Summer's storm, ageless and never tired, revolving and always striving to know the open mire of sleepless gnomes upon the stronghold of wire planted deep in the magnet's face, stuck forever upon the sad race of mild giants caught in place, a sea-bell rings twice, the roads are spinning ice, I touch the dark shadow within, there is time to know and time to win, that which is inside will never be revealed, that which is warm will never be sealed, see the potter at his wheel, how glib his season is within his steel fortress there are times he wishes nothing else but to curl the soft air around his fingers and melt it like twine till its essence lingers.
Reprinted by kind permission of the Regents of the University of California,
Bancroft Library, Berkeley. Gift of Diane Walker Murray