A flock of seagulls on a field--

"Oh that means storms on the coast," I said.

"You've got it wrong" as you shook your head,

"They live on the lakes. They are always here."

What other essential wisdom have

I based on misinformation

And, unaware of deformation,

Leaned on a world that isn't there

But floats some feet above the earth

Rooted in supposition;

Based on premise not on stone,

Separate, complete; like a bubble of air?

And if, because I like your hat

Or eyes, or because the shape of your hand

Reminds me of people I have loved,

I take as fact that you understand

I find myself in this muddy field

As the winter light sinks in the ground

And strange birds with no tidy story

Lurch in circles closer round

With love and its signs as miles apart

As pigeon-seagulls and the sea;

Meaning and manifestation

Knotted far away from me

In bright rooms where the people greet

Things and facts they know they know;

And I across this weary field

The long way homeward plodding go.