The face of the wave, rising, becomes a wall and then the sky.
Reach out, asking
where are these enormous bees from, in the heather
strumming forgotten things; this late-winter eternity of dove-blue rooms.
The child brings these secrets home. Beyond this door the house is falling, the white pulse of the
ghost’s hand draws him.
(though not the dead:
the future echo of a life difficult as flowers has its own power.
A year rises from empty May; fills with gold.
Stars pool on its broken floor.
She takes his hand: I will stay the harvest, but will leave you nothing
& even this is unclear.
Here the wave is falling. the terrible absence
(the dark under the wing,
lonely breakfasts in sunlit rooms)
gets through: the wire in the rose, if less
perhaps than error, lies more deep and careless than loss and disrepair.
and then leave:
as you will