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Like turning razors the hours have shaved
the skies; and here in the land of the lighted desk
my head leans on the cliff-face of my arm
that juts straight out of a sea of wood.
And here the eyes neither float nor sink,
and the letters like ripples on a bay:
a wind is blowing over the paper
tossing the words, repairing the series.
Then a stillness occurs, and the ticking clock
like a moon with a heart-beat ticks out the shape
of consciousness - and all the sea dries up!
Then falls again - down, down into the lines.
And so I find in reality I am
the diver, no matter the place and time. |
