Less the shadow
than you a stag, sudden, through it.
Less the stag breaking cover than
the antlers, with which
Less the antlers as trees leafless,
to either side of the stag’s head, than—
between them—the vision that must
mean, surely, rescue.
Less the rescue.
More, always, the ache
When I think of death, the gleam of
the world darkening, dark, gathering me
now in, it is lately
as one more of many other nights
figured with the inevitably
black car, again the stranger’s
strange room entered not for prayer
but for striking
prayer’s attitude, the body
kneeling, bending, until it finds
the muscled patterns that
predictably, given strain and
release, flesh assumes.
When I think of desire,
it is in the same way that I do
God: as parable, any steep
and blue water, things that are always
there, they only wait
to be sounded.
And I a stone that, a little bit, perhaps
should ask pardon.
My fears—when I have fears—
are of how long I shall be, falling,
and in my at last resting how
indistinguishable, inasmuch as they
are countless, sire,
all the unglittering other dropped stones.