By Fallen Leaf Lake, above timberline,
the jumbled blocks of granite pile
to water-edge. Lost and losing
the sun, I thought them almost
faces, so near and meaningless
in this late cold light that penetrates
nothing, without source or direction.
And now at times these faces are alien
and weary, and my eyes won’t follow light
past surfaces: a tangible wind opaques them
like water, scatters light broken,
angular. Stumbling, silent,
I remember those abrupt nameless surfaces
without resonance; dream instantly
I might make something for once
new with the fragments: except for the distance,


20 April 63
the Terrace


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