82

In the Absence of the Sun

In the absence of the sun one

can turn, and candle some other light.

I kindle my gathered hearth, and images

flare there and flicker, crowding the inward eye.

I cradle them, swaying into trance

like an antique Jew reciting Torah.

Here: the overwash of seas and infinite space

empty of starfish and the prickled stars;

and against that dark ground, oscillant and steady,

a sheet of light flings them—starfish and stars—

like dews that coalesce, and sing momently, and are,

but are not Being.

Then as the harmony begins

the ready ear hears other than the four-note fool

of bird hiding in the hwen tree from black sky and rain.

Now can I rise, walk through the rising song

and not be shattered;

gather the stars in my dim hands

and they not die;

enter the wall of fire

and not be burned.

Oh Parmenides.