Black Space
For Erna Brodber
Be ye my fictions; But her story.
— Richard Crashaw
I can bring a halo
into the night cave, quiet
with music (do not ask the music),
to her shaded there
in the moon; her fine spectacles
steam their pond rings;
her animal eyes fix
on the lintel of the door
as the wax owl glances back at me. I am her little cotton
tree the breeze combs
white into a final note,
her diminuendo poco a poco ...
Moon-afro, myself
outpaces me
in wonder of her.
She goes off and I seep
under the black sprout
of her house, to rise
a salmon bell on the hill
dissolving mild cloud fractals,
without grief or malice.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Note: Only a member of this blog may post a comment.