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Woken, he faltered in his own sense,

As at the edge of a fabric,

Plucking at a point to disturb the expanse.

Light poured in the bay, through velour drapes.

The folds converged.

What is woven can be moved, he thought :

Water, though it has no memory ;

Fire, though it joins nothing ;

Light, though we cannot know it rent.

He drew at the filament and beheld the pattern

Ruck, draw out, tatter,

As at the wind's behest.

He felt his ribs ache from the bed and he thought

That, though time and space

Coincide there for a while in stillness, though

His sleep fasten him still to indeterminacy, given

All contingence held behind,

He must allow both soon to reassume, for place

To take him back into its heart, for time to throw

Him out on its measure again.

Beyond the pane, the trees bore up their signals,

Commanding him to motion. He thought:

“Let the trees of the forest sing.”

Raunenden Beschwörer. My arborescent keepers.

He had read of fire and known its codeword. Bitter

Ghostshapes called down to ash.

Fiat lux! He hauled himself up and went to the sink.