Questions
Whose birth is not the enigma
one always hopes for
And isn’t my birth the good friend I go on missing
So, why is my sun limited to moonlight
And why isn’t there a hospital for faces cut from the moon
Why shouldn’t I write mysterious poems if I am not grief
Aren’t there fleet horses running along the top of my trees
Isn’t my true life a furrow through God’s breath
Isn’t life as unforeseen :: as the gift of confusion wise men bring
Why did I have no human thought until light thickened and our course was lost
And why does meditation make an elaborate flame hard to see
Why can’t I touch the part you have in the arc of my sleep
And doesn’t the small dark of the heart seek voices from another world
Is it divorce when I voluntarily die in your sleep
When shall the dreams which give us shape be taken from my mouth
And why do I think the soul is necessary :: and almost nothing else
Why have I kept this secret poem away from its own invention
I’ll put it back in the earth, as soft as dust :: a word too much
When dancing with the dance alone :: my eyes are lit by rain
Grant Hackett
from Falling off the Mountain
Selected and arranged
by Kris
