By Joanne Kyger


The grasses are light brown

and the ocean comes in

long shimmering lines

under the fleet from last night

which dozes now in the early morning


Here and there horses graze

on somebody’s acreage


Strangely, it was not my desire


that bade me speak in church to be released

but memory of the way it used to be in

careless and exotic play


when characters were promises

then recognition’s.  The world of transformation

is real and not real but trusting.


Enough of these lessons?  I mean

didactic phrases to take you in and out of

love’s mysterious bonds?


Well I myself am not myself


and which power of survival I speak

for is not made of houses.


It is inner luxury, of golden figures

that breathe like mountains do

and whose skin is made dusky by stars.


Rest in Peace Dear Poet




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