IF IT WERE NOT
If it were not for that
Lean executioner, who stands
Ever beyond a door
With axe raised in both hands --
All my days here would be
One day -- the same -- the drops
Of light edgeless in light
That no circumference stops.
Mountain, star and flower
Single with my seeing
Would -- gone from sight -- draw back again
Each to its separate being.
Nor would I hoard against
The obliterating desert
Their petals of the crystal snow
Glittering on the heart.
My hand would never stir
To follow into stone
Hair the wind outlines on sky
A moment, and then gone.
What gives edge to remembering
Is death. It's that shows, curled,
Within each falling moment
An Antony, a world.
She came into the garden
And, walking through deep flowers, held up
Our child who, smiling down at her,
Clung to her throat, a cup.
Clocks notch such instances
On time: no time to keep
Beyond the eye's delight
The loss that makes it weep.
I chisel memories
Within a shadowy room,
Transmuting gleams of light to ships
Laun . . .
