210

The undergrowth seemed to fall,
Petrified, from its place, like
            The long line of a breaker
Caught in the consummation of
    Its power, that moment that
    Precipitates collapse. So the
Ourflung arms of rhododendron
    And brush seemed to entreat,
Turning in place at our passage,
    Stunted and botched and dark
Like the abandoned prototypes
    Of some now-perfected engine.
 
            A heat lay coiled in my gut,
Watching the shadows surge, the
            Carriage contributing its
Shade, watching the brief flight
Of a mourning dove from branch
            To far branch, an instance
Of a life among other instances,
    Among other lives, so alien to
What one knows by understanding.

I cannot hold you in my hands,
I say to that body flung softly into
        The air of its lonely force.