There are many kinds of time -
and not all kindly motes -
drifting shapes in shifting
mazes hardly hint at.
There are many drapes of space,
much more than sculpture teases down
or shotguns to a pose.
Metaphors are feeble mathematics;
equations are tin tokens.
What figures describe
how we walk in one another's minds
as tenderly as pond skaters?
Spheres of separation take
an eye from the sky
and close the curves of evening,
dull, in thick cocoons
that bells may spike like iron maidens
so, despite the god-like
certainty of common angles.
Strange rooms crowd our conversations,
supplications threading through;
and can we count their companies
for all that one and one are two?
YOU ARE READING
Tapestries
PoetryPoems from 1978 onwards. These poems are in a different style from the later MajorSeventh, the earlier ones often with more of an Eastern-influenced cadence. Later, they vary a lot in form and style.
