Sabine Miller
Hypothesis
                              for D. Grey
A man spent one day and night hosing down giraffes and aoudads at the safari park;
the preservation of wildness is something I cultivate; your absence is a cloud I take in as
antidote; I prefer vapor to smoke because of the fires; I have yet to commit to a form or
a position apart from my orbit of you and your obscuration-by-cloud — I disappear
and reappear endlessly for your salvation; a man spent one night and day of the fires with the zebras and antelopes, extinguishing, extinguishing: lost
his house to save his souls.
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You Came to the Gate
                              to Rabindranath Tagore
You rose, a country and sundials pointing to you, pillar of body pillar of mind, the long pain gone or not yet come; you were a candle flaring in many chests; otherwise the mist is oppressive today; plum petals aren’t angels but they can be the gift; pure boredom purifies, pure restlessness: the displaced moment is the unearned gift; the wind blows, a petal falls, the wind blows.
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Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground
I do not want to leave this ground, guitars would sing, if they could sing, of things of
which we must not speak; the bottom of the mind’s a well of song, I do not want; I will
go down to sing it there, a duet: the bottom and the breath, not yet poetry, not yet —
   .
As when he watched the fires behind closed eyes, not yet mournful, sang the water to the fire, the far near…
   .
Not yet, but night crisp as a cask, two owls calling, a skunk’s stink, the distance bridged of song, not a fixed constellation: a chord and a voice and whiskey, worn fingers on the frets, the wood warmed from fire; the cold listening for that note; it lingering; this ground.
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Sabine Miller lives in a small town outside of San Francisco.
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Hypothesis
                              for D. Grey
A man spent one day and night hosing down giraffes and aoudads at the safari park;
the preservation of wildness is something I cultivate; your absence is a cloud I take in as
antidote; I prefer vapor to smoke because of the fires; I have yet to commit to a form or
a position apart from my orbit of you and your obscuration-by-cloud — I disappear
and reappear endlessly for your salvation; a man spent one night and day of the fires with the zebras and antelopes, extinguishing, extinguishing: lost
his house to save his souls.
You Came to the Gate
                              to Rabindranath Tagore
You rose, a country and sundials pointing to you, pillar of body pillar of mind, the long pain gone or not yet come; you were a candle flaring in many chests; otherwise the mist is oppressive today; plum petals aren’t angels but they can be the gift; pure boredom purifies, pure restlessness: the displaced moment is the unearned gift; the wind blows, a petal falls, the wind blows.
Dark Was the Night, Cold Was the Ground
I do not want to leave this ground, guitars would sing, if they could sing, of things of
which we must not speak; the bottom of the mind’s a well of song, I do not want; I will
go down to sing it there, a duet: the bottom and the breath, not yet poetry, not yet —
   .
As when he watched the fires behind closed eyes, not yet mournful, sang the water to the fire, the far near…
   .
Not yet, but night crisp as a cask, two owls calling, a skunk’s stink, the distance bridged of song, not a fixed constellation: a chord and a voice and whiskey, worn fingers on the frets, the wood warmed from fire; the cold listening for that note; it lingering; this ground.
Sabine Miller lives in a small town outside of San Francisco.