The Reply

or tries to move, among facts,

naming one's self and one's acts

as if they were real. Dead leaves

cling to the branch, and the root

grips to endure, but no cry

questions the illusion of sky.

THE REPLY

I stand in the late sun

With nothing I can name,

Recalling we were one

Before an act became

More than an act should be.

The earth, the darkened tree

Of winter, and the sky

Motionless and thin

Shuddered with your reply:

The emptiness within.

What was I to do?

I did the best I could:

Alone, despising you,

I dug the silent wood

For root and muscle weed.

My hunger and my greed

Thrived on what was small,

Dead seed and crusted thorn.

I lived-and that was all-

Where nothing could be born.

Light fails, and I absorb

A heaviness of air.

Nothing can disturb

Your coming everywhere:

It takes what it denies.

Your eyes within my eyes

Return at last, and I

Am given to the hand

Which bears eternity

To the last command.