Monday, 15 June 2009

Freshwater Lens

On the first day of the
Review of clouds there were
No clouds & the sky was

Steel blue, which is alien,
Not a colour of life.
Him looking out of the

Aeroplane window will
Be dead. & addressing
Action committee at

Top of mountain hidden
Among the small bushes
& half-trench dug in clay

Means death. He is of rivers
[Vide my threat at
Assisi]. I would bury

Him beneath riverbed
So that the waters could pick
The dust & the pebbles

& at their ebb leave him
Clean & white so a dog
Would think him sheep’s bones

& a farmer flints of
The river – only the lofty
Hawk might see you sun-stretched

As you were. ‘Don’t pay
To see me suffer
In my under ground

Water prison,’ newt that
Stays newt. Your water gist

To drown or to be cut
Apart with swords, or to
Be destroyed by fire

Or sword, dragonfly or rock.
Ah, salt, at the low point
Of the world, wave bobbing

At the limit of the
Lens – at the limit of
Our dissolution in

This river & after.
Welcome salt & uplift
On warm breeze of the thin

Upper layers as sun
Welcomes the high midday
In littlest hobo release.

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