To one lady

  (ginamarie)

who gets that,say, a relationship to the many
  sinks only into itself, for depth
--peace of  becalmed brows!--

and who foretells like the earlier or later Jack
   the poet of love, patience is
    all 61 years of it, true

and and precisely because the poets again will
  turn into something absolutely true
 --Jack's advantage over us--

the pome will cut everything ungrateful off from
  us, looking into itself, as in all life
    lovable just by itself

Kateri (2): a prayer for the sick

She dances, with me, shucking braids and feverish ears,
  heedless of any love unto death

Every outstretched palm, fleshed tight with her, I give
  like the moon and sea bird
     -in fact, felt in prayer

like the tide as knife cuts a lake of spume and reed
    in fact, a clutch of water reeds-

  & like every hillock loosed from her shawl

Then eyes will narrow to her own sweet slantwise striation
      -a kind of delectation, for me

also to be felt in the ghost of a young girl's fever,
  the always wild-sweet clammy hand