What is a happening but conscious cloud
bands the bright earth with softer mysteries.
A perfect balance between waking and dreams
so mastered by the brute blood of the air.
To be the thing being breathed
in burning whatever's inside that won't sleep.
More real than the real horizon,
awake for ever in a sweet unrest.
Higher, touching, sometimes fumbling
that's flowering. You're no good host to this.
For in my arms I hold
the value of being pleasant
in perfect time and measure.
It sorta works this time my love.

(Volkman, Colborne-Veel, Zagajewskiy, Yeats, Lasky,
W.S. Di Piero, Galvin, Keats, Irwin, Malech, Auden,
Uribe, Emerson, Olin)