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To speak your name, Bucephala,
                Is to hear the music of the sea.
                The dark body of the water
                                Moves languidly
                As humid air in summer. Weed
                Blows silently in the shallows.
                                The sun bends its
                Force upon a low mass of cloud.
                Motions that do not resonate
                                As does your name.
The wind drops in pitch.
You are safe from all damage,
                                My quiet witness.
                The water is your medium,
                It forms itself about you when
                                You dive,
                Falls from you when you fly.
                O, for such a boundary to hold!
                                You may return
                Into your origin or break away,
                Given such amnion to occupy.
What it the meaning of you, where you
Float, broken-headed, luminous, white,
                                On the dim swell?

        I will not hold your head
        In the cradle of my hands
        As I would a nodding rose.

        It is winter, and the light here
                        Is yet old enough.
        I will let you bloom, and pass.