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. 
                      
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