19

White puffs and blue above
and below me
a tight-worsted forest
of wool, the colour
is asphalt, reflecting
green tinge. Night
and the lights
below me. A filigree
of song: squeaks
of the wheels as they
touch down. In bed
comes rest. Within rest
comes the sun, the son,
the young lover to his bride
with calves of iron joy.

What is perfectly sure
revives as it simplifies.
In this wise what is right and pure
rejoices and clarifies
all that it commands.

What is clean and true
is what cuts what's wanted
from that which is possible;
a man's days are numbered,
his body, mortal: fear
closes the circle,
fits the ring,
enduring and profound,
leads to the honeycomb,
the song that's spun
in threads of gold.

I might warn myself
not to make presumptions here.
I should be aware
that the stair I climb goes up
and down. I cling, I fear, too much
And tear the flowing gown, expect
too much that it warns me.


© Dan Goorevitch, 1998