After Eden
(for Hart Crane)
How completely the silence
encloses our life.
We will talk and crowd the room
with words like blown-in insulation.
The beveled moon cuts us
with its edge something not considered
not thought of before.
The treason of a moment
never pleases in retrospect.
And there is no season
for banality just frailty
for there must be living:
autumn's benediction
the pale strawberries of spring
a rainbow trout in winter lake.
There is that and the silence
so nearly said telling nothing
and everything of presence a dull
sheen concealing the stone the dark
wish the plum Hart the plum.
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