This poem got lost in its own obstinate obscurity, and will never be finished. So…I guess it’s finished then.
Re: Sunbeams, Etc., from Letters to the Enemy; a hypochondrial correspondence
Things are well in hand. For example,
today I dissected the sunbeams you’ve spoken of.
Inside was all you’ve lost and forgotten.
Today I dissected sunbeams, viewed them
in cross-section under microscopes, before mirrors,
dusted with distance, and found they contain all desire
(you may begin to tremble).
In the first, I found an little-leaf linden
dripping a slow liquor from seedpods
and holding, hidden in stubborn green,
the husks and hard yellow bones of many
years of aborted photons (meanwhile
the afternoon moon drifted in the south,
a pale mockery of cloud).
Yes, things are well in hand. In another,
a rainbarrel decanted dark water,
coolness steeping in spruce needles, twigs
fallen from maples and horse chestnuts,
and occasional mosquito larvae,
while the surface rippled echoes of lips
(a smile, reflected, dissipated).
And parceled out across many were pieces
of an eagle’s wings spread effortless
above the reedy headwaters of a river.
Now you must think of that eagle—looking
so all-of-a-piece—as I have seen it,
a mist of seeming scattered across sunlight
(you must think of the eagle).
Yes, everything is well in hand. Today
I dissected sunbeams. I have documents,
research, theories. I have slides of sunbeams
(you are in more than one).