Classic Poem

First things first: dig in at the lake's edge.
Use sedge for your rug;
sleep on a stone ledge.

No phonographs needed here —
the music you hear is made by a dozen soft tongues
lapping water, by a hungry lion,
deer.

Sun brands your shoulders;
you are singled out for life
by this indelible contact.

Yes, you might as well face facts.
The eyes see you,
the men pity you.
The animals would like to devour you.
No one will save you.

You live by the lake, waiting.
Things to do:

For supper, suck the meat
from a crayfish, or chew watery plants,
spitting out what you can't eat —
it'll feed the white ants
fumbling at your feet.

When the moon comes up, look by its light
for changes — the mountains that move
nearer, the sky that drops,
trees that shed their bark and grow into giants overnight —

The next day, rain.

Locate a thicket to hide in.
Before you enter, make sure it's empty.
That commotion? A cricket.

All day you wait.

You are so damp that beans sprout from your skin,
flowers from your fingertips.
You are budding; open
your mouth to fate

and take it in —
those lips are already smeary with sin.

Generously flick seeds aside.

Grow in the ground; become one
with earth and sun.

Surrender yourself. Evaporate. Abide.