New Arrival

JACK LINDEMAN

NEW ARRIVAL

Now he has reached this land, swinging like a cradle

Under the blue stare of the sky, where his body

Commences. A child must have seasons learning the touch

Of invisible air at the extremities his limbs

Are stretching toward. He is also a tree watered

By the tears of the sky's unhappiness. So it is

That even as the world suffers he drinks to quench

His parched throat. Beneath him there is shade for those

Smaller than himself, and above, the sun like

A gentle hand lifts the darkness from his eyes.

The night was a shut door and beyond in the hall

A coin of light continued to burn on the rooftops

Of other longitudes; and there was a noise of traffic

Past many oceans, yet he was happy counting

The diminishing stars one by one until the one

Closest to his eye tyrannized his view.

The door by which he had been enclosed

Disappeared like a winged creature, though

He knew by fingertip and palm it was neither

Soft nor warm and undulating with pulse beats.

He guessed that it might be a harsh law or wall

Of wood, but not wholly understanding,

And being small in his mood, he found no reason

To examine any knotholes of disobedience.

Instead, he dreamed himself into the sun's range

And enjoyed the usual games indulged in by a child

On a bright day. It was only at waking he

Disbelieved the dropped leaf fluttered like a severed wing

Outside his sealed sleep, which he thought must last

Forever in this land where there is perpetual

Burning for the senses' delight on things green

And flaked with color of fallen cumulus.