The Fallow Plough
There are those of us, as one,
who feel greatly the indescribable
feeling
as if to probe the caverns of our non-existence--
the us which cannot be and is not
except in the small hours, the infinity of moments,
stretching beyond our belittled sense with shut, weary eyes
and the inconstant shaping of faces behind the world.
The momentous certainty of one's own death,
we know,
tolls me back, not from sleep, or fugue, or transcendence,
but by sloping box springs. Where no transient rivers lay their beds,
no eglantine or honeysuckle dapple the wild thicket groves,
no fluorescent bulbs lead to the exhaustible sun,
no tender sprigs will spring in Spring or fall in Fall, but
here, where places do not exist as we do not,
we know.
I feel no thing, and here is where I love--
a most disembodied love that cannot die
for death like we is not--
and leaden-eyed among the alien corn each sordid day, I yearn
most deeply to feel you there
as I do not feel you, my love.
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