The reservoir is hammered
into one whitened piece.
An owl, darkly buried,
carries half the night
away like a canyon
carries an echo down.
When the final touch
is carved on water,
intimately the mouse
knows the owl, and I
am left to the last
enterprise of imagination,
the Christ tree enters
all the linen shadows
that here bear me in.
I am what the Christ tree is,
an upright man at no arms,
a swimmer vertical
in time, elusive saint,
a descendent of Abel
second in the clubbing.
But night and the cold charge
live where the rim hangs
between Saugus and Lynn
sunset and sunrise,
halfway into my eyesight,
halfway into the echo
night carries in its mouth,
a mouse at odds with destiny.
|