In the Little Temple of My Sleeping Bag

In the little temple of my sleeping bag,
Beneath thinking mountains, where snow releases
Early morning crocuses,

When lightning’s faint hunting hounds bound
All silver excited over birds, in pairs, on wires, coupled
Against the wind, the rain, the sky,

Howl the second part of us people flowers.
Shush! Tell the spider she’s simple. Then publish books,
Enclose porches, pay bills.

Golden thoughts, raindrops, turquoise doves, clear water,
Even owls, sometimes rock to spans of sandy horn music
Pulsed through starlight.