113

His eyes were open and he
Stared at me and at the
Knife. I was sure that there
Was nothing in his pockets,
Nothing capable of harm.
He was, if possible, yet
Paler than before and he
Sat trembling as water fell
From his hair and beaded
Across his contoured face.
There was a look of dumb
Incomprehension on his
Face, as if he had fallen out
Of coordination in the world,
Had somehow misplaced his
Cause and motive power.

Yet suddenly he sprang up,
Even from under the knife I
Held, and I had to withdraw
It up away from him of else
He would have been cut by it.
For an immaculate, bright
Instant he was a motionless
Figure within the downpour,
The rain breaking off his body
Like sparks from an anvil.
Suddenly he broke his pose
And made a bolt for the trees
And I didn't try to stop him.
There was a bottle in the
Grass filling up with rainwater.
And that was years ago, now.