He want us to see so much, to love
so intensely, let our eccentricities bloom.
Like a grandfather coaxing his young ones
towards the future, he tells us
not to be timid of cowed, not to sit 

on the sidelines of the feast, to to exult
with the stone, the hosannahs of leaves

and towers. He wants us to multiply
our hands like the coral, let the sky nest
on our balconies, welcome the fishes of light

among the wrought iron kelp.
He wants us to open with windows
like the yawn of some fantastic dolphin.
If only we would read the book
of nature, we would see that no wind blusters

between East and West, no fence rises
between one nature and another, between animal,
mineral or plant. We would see
that like his spires, the mountains
really tilt. We would walk under the slanted palms

of his arches, plunge through corridors
as if we were swimming underwater
or through the heart of the earth, as it is –

as we could be – not tamed or bent by the world,
but passionate as molten rock.