I Wish That You Were Here in Spring
Your letter comes in sunset,
outlining every reed along the shore.
I walk along the dock beyond our cabin,
spreading my arms to become the light and shadow filtering these aging
A merganser flashes down from the low hanging clouds,
sears between evening and autumn's red haze,
lands in a bright spume of light and dives beneath the waves.
He will come up somewhere,
his red head now dark against his dark plumage,
his throat filled with straining fish going into night.
I wish we had come to this,
because even in this distant time
the scent of your body still enfolds me.
but the wind is blowing into evening,
and in evening mists rise from this lake,
erasing first the distant shores, then the trees,
the fox that comes down to drink, eyes bright, ghostly;
finally the single man who steps out into the white, swirling darkness
In the Plate Glass Window Factory
In the plate glass window factory they watch reflections of sky
and melt down silicon mountains before coffee break.
The sun rises and sets in iron vats.
It is contained.
In the plate glass window factory they build liquid frames
for pictures of farm houses where the farmer rises early in the morning
or for train cars that ensnare the mountains of a continent
and for young women baking bread in little towns of red brick homes.
In the plate glass window factory as the day goes on the breathing hardens
and they pour their crystal lakes into featureless trays
which can be filled with anything,
sweeping time from the floorboards and cutting it out to hang on walls.
And in the plate glass window factory, the workers never go home,
not even when they fish dark rivers beneath the stars.
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