given that The clouds compel the sun then glow on its behalf. * (The sky trembles with the cry of noon dawn till twilight.) * Let the shadow over the earth fade; let, in the coming day, the heart of light and heat the frenzy of flame that orders all make itself apparent. * Establishing or so one trusts, “the unity of appearance,” establishing or so one trusts the givenness of “external perception” of imagination and memory of universals and predicates, of nonsense and contradiction, and nothing . . . * Of olives, of salt, of a jostle of pepper. * Of the onion which, in this new instance, is the sun. (Around which all ingredients, all spices, move. The onion is a sun kept hidden in the earth.) * There might be a gratitude ready, now, to be expressed. Nothing ultimate, nothing operatic. * A gratefulness beyond the everyday anywhere of the mind where we are talking more than listening but needing at least the illusion that we are if not spoken to, beyond any last fantasy of an answer, heard. * Beyond even those perfections that never come to an end, formerly a foretaste of Paradise: to be here, now, in this quiet, as sunlight falls on the earth. * On an agonized planet, where the hole inside a ravaged body has healed enough that the excavation of a living ruin can continue. Now might every organ be lifted out and cleaned, be set back in its place in an operation that takes teams of doctors 18 hours to complete. * About to die, a prisoner is exonerated. Having bequeathed his possessions (even picked his last meal) he is in need of wisdom. Priest, imam, rabbi, prison ethicist, tell me, can I ask for my things back? Or must I stand by my decision to give away all earthly possessions even though the profoundly urgent incentive to do so has been withdrawn by a fate known as the Innocence Project? What then is the essence, what are the attributes of the nothing with which I must now live when I return to the world? * Givenness of sense to the words in a dream givenness of the brightness of the moon and of the longest day of light the earth will ever arrange for us, of beings and objects and Mt. Rainier becoming invisible. Givenness of the sound of unseen water, of light after days of dark . . . * The other day the computer made a sound never heard before. It went on and on. No one knew what to do. One could believe all data and the ability to transmit all data was coming to an end. It sounded as if the machine was out to destroy itself, file by file, circuit by circuit, until there was nothing left. A deep sorrow took hold at the passing away of knowledge and at the loss of countless hours. Then someone touched a key. The noise stopped, a quick assessment was made. Joy came to all those there at the word that nothing had been lost. * On the solstice, strings of grey filament, the light of the sky falls into the lake, the sky goes dark then the moon appears, so huge, as if to you alone, hungry as you are to withdraw, to simplify, to focus to strengthen your thought to understand at long last the relation of earth to sky. The age of exploration is over but the age of enlightenment is about to begin; its waiting for you to finish your meandering. (Sit down at your desk.) * The moon would have lingered last night but clouds tore it up and scattered its light across the sky. Next day, the trees all spoke about it, downcast, shaking their heads in disbelief. The birds wondered where the scraps of moonlight landed. Was there some field or street where the glow of night persisted into day, or has this rain dissolved it, so that it trickles deep into the earth until the time some passing comet would call it to the surface, damaged light, now healed. * All this is in regard to an ever-receding time from which so little that is coherent has ever reached you. * Huge crows hop on the sidewalk. You sip your wine secretly. Your thought lightens, the water keeps falling. * A theologian has said death gives us the possibility of impossibility. What is not is not simply nonexistent, he said, but is given to us in its nonexistence. * The dandelions in the shade of the shed have yet to unfold. The petals are drawn up in peaks of yellow, while in the full of first sun, those rooted there have opened, have found where radiance is, and lean towards it, offering it back its own image, a yard full or yellow stars, after days of rain. High wisdom from a low weed, that mirror for the miracle of a roaring in the sky, that inextinguishable wonder. So, too, the air which mediates a glory that would destroy us. Once again we return to the jewel of dew on the grass. Having achieved perfection the dew forsakes its form and flies up into the coming kingdom of warmth that seems to be arriving, now a kingdom no longer capable of being denied. A patch of yellow flowers are gathered, they are ready for the fullness of the light to be.