At last the house

At last the house has made a moon
to lope around, erratic orb, your
seasons come on with that other’s sun.
Inside the room, there is a room
where the wearing of the day hangs
weary up again by night. In that room,
a universe the size exactly of a man, and
loss a little larger than your heart.

In the garden of the asylum

In the garden of the asylum
Your mind is the wind in the trees
And you are that distant traveler
Pulling the landscape along
Behind him, sowing in his own mind–
Your mind–the future, the night
You will lie down in an open field
To watch stars wheeling round
Nothing but sky and this boat
Of a planet and what you became
In the garden of the asylum when
Your mind was the wind in the trees.