At the limit of your mastery,
where a filmy, rainbow swash is blotted,
here is a little stop, an introspection
where masks are doffed; mossy wells
where green actors overbrim silence
to spill out of all conviction or splash
with originality; where dancers fracture
fluid choreography to reveal automata
or rapture sculptures from bated breath.
Here is a keyhole fragment of holograph,
hazily intuitive, glimpse of the hollow hill;
here, the fluxions of an orbit
(hypnotic tangents conjuring a curve)
seasonal turns, transmutations
of pungent air, minor modulations
where changeling histories tumble.
And now I hold your gaze,
unbend from your scrutiny
or blur with tears what is written shall follow
to illegible watercolours.
Wake from programmed rigmaroles
in memories of green summer drizzle
filtered through bowed leaves -
plashed shallows where minnows cluster -
and swim to consciousness.
I will not play this scene:
you have made of me a missing piece
in the jig-saw of your purposes;
you have been gathering dusty choruses
to silt me out of choking voice,
drilling through me with director's eyes;
though your hair is crowned with busying flies
and your mouth is a Sibylline scroll.
YOU ARE READING
Tapestries
PoesíaPoems 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.
