Where the air people
build their flowery cities; where llamas
don’t have nasty habits but stare
out of their dark eyes;
where Shangri-La falls away in snowfields
and she slides down the white slopes,

Sometimes when I walk home on the road,
mist sits in the hills, dividing their dark green
from darker green. There’s the lake,
then hills and mist and hills and sky–
the white mist like a river floating sideways
up the hills, spread out in billows,

There are these doors
of generations. Some doors
are thin bridges, as Rabbi
Nachman says, plaintive
calls not to be afraid.