In the Morning

There is the description of landscapes

Where we learn the secret names of trees

Where we imagine the resonant whisper

Of leaves moments before first light

Then the sun flowers forth dawn and its own

Secret name which is Fango-fango

All this means anything to us anymore

This depiction weaving fresher linen

For our faces this brief scrap of language

Half-remembered nursery rhyme how do

You do and how do you do and how do

You do again the air is green the sky is stone

The horizon’s upside down and we’re laughing

Because it tickles not because it's funny