House of Light

if the bees know that otherwise death

is everywhere, even in the red swamp

of a flower. But they did this

with no small amount of desperation—you might say: love

so I thought:

maybe death

isn’t darkness, after all,

but so much light

wrapping itself around us—

as soft as feathers—

that we are instantly weary

of looking, and looking, and shut our eyes,

not without amazement,

and let ourselves be carried,

as through the translucence of mica,

to the river

that is without the least dapple or shadow—

that is nothing but light—scalding, aortal light—

in which we are washed and washed

out of our bones.

I want to believe that the imperfections are nothing—

that the light is everything—that it is more than the sum

of each flawed blossom rising and fading. And I do.

There are so many stories,

more beautiful than answers.

this is what would finish him:

not the gloom, which was only terrible,

but those last yellow fields, where clearly

nothing in the world mattered, or ever would,

but the insensible light.

Is there anything more important

than hunger and happiness?

how could anyone believe

that anything in this world

is only what it appears to be—

that anything is ever final—

that anything, in spite of its absence,

ever dies

a perfect death?

Death isn’t just an idea.

When we die the body breaks open

like a river;

the old body goes on, climbing the hill.

I think I will always be lonely

in this world, where the cattle

graze like a black and white river—

where the ravishing lilies

melt, without protest, on their tongues—

where the hummingbird, whenever there is a fuss,

just rises and floats away.

I think this is

the prettiest world—so long as you don’t mind

a little dying, how could there be a day in your whole life

that doesn’t have its splash of happiness?