When I have had enough of reason

    I turn to the evening boughs

among the wild fern,
        steam on the horse’s back,

the tidy white guts of ants spread

    across the floors, and field after field

of fireflies saying I’m here,
        make love to me, I’m here.

Every bit of it simple, entire, intact,

    maybe even ordinary.

All the essential lonelinesses
        giving account of themselves.