The Fog on Alder Wood Road

Why want to tell people things
For no reason other than to be
Divested of the telling? Be plain,

Be ornate, be utterly inscrutable
As the bird without any name for me

Singing compulsively in the big trees.

There is no good way to get past
The gate without slipping, without
Ending up telling things to no one.

I want to believe in my planet,
I want random accidents to make sense,
I want to have names for the amazing

That knits itself together this way
Or that way, by god or by thought,

To end up as restless, framed tapestry.