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.