The year
rises from empty May; fills with gold.
Reach out, asking
where are these enormous bees from, in the heather
strumming forgotten things; the late-winter eternity of dove-blue rooms. Stars pool on the broken floor.
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.
She takes his hand:
I will stay the harvest, but will leave you nothing
& even this is unclear.
The face of the wave, rising, becomes a wall and then the sky.
Then, here the wave is falling. The terrible absence
(the dark under the wing,
water, these
lonely breakfasts in sunlit rooms)
gets through: the wire in the rose, if less
perhaps than error, lies yet more deep and careless than loss and disrepair.
