Toward the Lake
Morning light, light at dusk, now
and then a step
from each other, the endless tuning of one string
Perfection in the first means the second
an entire key only to be keyed
and so on . . . Light is patience and falls
a pearl necklace strung by gradations
and the smallest,
at the moment of the clasp, rolls away,
the floorboards forever, the strand left gaping
If I had a yellow dress and an open
I am sure as much music could float in
on the wind
as could float out on the air, and so on . . .
The great map
hangs above a leather chair studded
with silver rivets.
I can barely remember the word we use
for the map’s crest,
that square that sets the ratio and symbols.
It’s posted there,
obvious, and oblivious to the sea,
of the sea, forever. The fist of Spain
triangular. I was happy there in legend:
of real ships, a monster’s fins leaping
the beach, a compass rose, and so on . . .
From the Lake
In the middle
of the night, to count up what is
out the wiry scale, suspending it like
in a play about the ghost of nothing
Moonlight shines in on the scene.
A Last Judgment
looms from a loom on the wall.
then, start at the start, or come forward
on the glaze
of surfaces? In the middle of the watery
night, the plumb-
line snags in the eelgrass. The lecturer
said the name
meant coming and going, just the same,
could that be true? You find yourself looking
for a clue.
You find yourself
looking for a clue. Why do
always stretch toward the future when
the rest of them,
retreat, in silence, to the past? It’s all
deferred. A set of substitutions.
A coin for all
the flecks that make the coin. Much farther south
the diver dreams
by lamps propped on the mast. The sea teems
with somethings chasing
nothings all around, and minor irritations,