A high silvery voice
is singing a song
a few think is ringing
in their ears
Oh I have gone deaf
with your music
Tonight she rises in Pisces
and I kneel to her.

That face of sweet
smiling unattainable,
silver sailing, spinning fine
threads to the standing corn,
geometries cut in you,
shadows of the night,
small birds above
the cloud—no, bats!

The angels
dive into darkness,
so hot, late summer,
harvest moon speaks
of wanting,
never having,
of the last rose.

Now I am under water,
silver clouded darkness,
a trout seeing moon
through water,
The Navajo’s white
spider woman, her face
a perfect sea shell.

The clouds suddenly motionless,
no more racing towards
the pitiful end,
no more mistakes,
now with the Moon
in Pisces, I have
you all, however
you wish to appear.

The corn will be dead
tomorrow, chopped into silage.
The green man who lies down
for dead and springs up again,
the stars all kneeling overhead.

Wind leaps,
breaks the neck
of the clouds,
and again we're
swimming in Time.