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CvK |
Watermarks |
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VII. Return |
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The tides creeps
among the rocks; the lyre is
against the before-dawn dark skies while the furrowed
sea curls upon itself and about long,
dry tongues of sand, Sleep songs held
by fold of water-sinew and graved by
glare of night-light swung our in
search over meniscus-sleek wing-sheened sea.
Pull back! Tide bore surges
to the rim of walls and throws back
the light of the seven stars climbing,
moon in sinking, while sleep alone grips
at empty dreams, self-sealed. The crevasse is full, and under
wave bow hides plenitude. The aching break
is crossed; tomorrows’s hope
devoured, then redeemed a death,
a proxy, near, ever near
our washed, wrung shores. All flawed,
striation worked: the marble grain leads eyes
along age-tight muscle up; and from below
the iron-sweet spring flowing red, issues
back and over turning purl through bird hung
grove, lapping at sodden
roots: a constant warm whirl. Then as hard as
horn and just as dark as it gored salt-sting
into groin, flack pressed with here
cries, yet tear-smoothed limbs heal. Steps without
future or past. Scramble over scree. All bare in
the instant, silent and in turn on
wheel, shaped a form the last: leaning a little this way, then
that. Views change as it reels. Come together with
speed the last. Hoofs of white
oxen on the road stamp, shaking flies from
heads, from eyes, glancing at the
crumbling redoubts. Ah, doubts like
motes circling in the flat
ray-pierced owl-light of the no days left in the
last geometer’s drawn curve
withal: the constant numbers ascribed
divine, threaten rift, a dam break or
rampage rush, over-pour all
and end engorged with mud. Thus grasping a
perfection from weight of silt
turned to flawing. As with lyre cord stretched
over water for moon to fall with
high-above ear pitch snap, so waves,
net-loosed, ride with wind
to ungarrisoned shores. The week is curved
to an end, and numbered spheres
flow, refract on musk-sweet,
mere-bitter ebb, that is: from the
sea, she, and with corona whirr. Harmony would wax
from the deserts of we begin again:
then we say: I am come into my
garden, where birds turn
preened, eye-plumed, to branches as a
sleep-chirp quiet echoes as from a
cave, a slow rite, a lime to lure
night to cover them Even so… |