Her body by the fire,
Mimicked the light-conferring midnights,
Of philosophy.
Suppose they are dead now..
Isn't "Dead Now" an odd expression?
The sound of the owls outside,
And the wind soughing in the trees,
Catches in their ears,
Is sent out,
In scouting parties of sensation down their spines.
If you say it became language,
Or it was nothing,
Who touched whom?
In what hurtle of starlight?
Poor language?
Poor theory?
Of Language.
The shards of Skull,
In the Egyptian museum,
Looked like Maps of the Wind-Eroded,
Canyon Labyrinths from which,
Standing on the verge,
In the yellow of a dwindling fall,
You hear echo and re-echo the cries of terns,
Fishing the worked silver of a rapids.
And what to say of her wetness?
The Anglo-Saxons had a name for it:
They called it Silm.
They were navigators,
It was also their word,
For the look of Moonlight on the Sea.
Specail thanks to Nano Taggart...