Geoffrey Nutter


All trees war against ideals.
All wood sorrel, all sea holly,
all bezique so caution, though
Rosenzweig is diamonded and inter-
folded in his books, his star.
But is he standing like a man
of metal by the fences, the scent
of jasmine ice-like in the grass?
There are no ideals, save
in marl under ant-farms, the bee
in the climbing noisette rose,
the banded hair-streak brooding
in the shade of the cold palmetto.
I was living in a dream world,
so they say, or a dream provincial
town of ramen shops and sunset
sheriffs, far from cities, where you
cried at the thought of beautiful tears,
but only the rain rings true
and fire-disciples go where they’re told
without questioning. Even the boughs
of the commonest trees shine with rain
when the sun comes out, the glossy
page of Saturn’s blue pomona where
the yellow-streaked plums are meditating.
There is an interim of wandering, when
sunlight scatters wildly through the branches;
but then the violet clouds come gently,
tame all things. And sparrows visit
the Earth a world of dark wars
and giants, the mysterious and mighty
Earth, patiently bearing all misunderstanding.