O Virgina Woolf!
To chum Majorie, for introducing me to Stevens.
That, of those
supported by water,
may or may not link with mine.
This could be a different matter:
a jaunt alongside the bare, grey hedge,
changing over time,
challenging the dawdling autumn mists
ignited by auburn and aqua lights.
Is there any laughter alongside pigeon laughter?
Or engaging frowns? Is there with you
the flutter a wing engraves against air
too thin to sketch, thick enough for effect?
Mangled light
from a tower moored in sensibility
sweeps stark over a bare rock,
touches no tears, reflects only against mica
makes its way, makes…
what it cannot use, what it only thinks,
piecing together the sibulants, the vowels,
the shades of difference,
the nighttime arrests for a minor offense:
like marshmellows, glazed golden
yet with less
Candor? What hangs from there?
What splendors entice me to speech?
These things, after all, are
for the quiet, as I discuss,
as you discuss, my teeth in the breeze
that returns from lighthouses
too thick for brick. From that of those
who await me,
standing free across the pensive sea—
shouting?