Montale

The shadows get to cover

the afternoon. Even birds

are folded away. A green

squash on the sill, the heart

full of seeds. The blackthorn,

berries pulped to blood

on the ground. His sleep

is one portion of shadow,

a thing cobwebbed in a corner,

something to be worked

over and over. One strand

for the kettle, the pewter-color

rain. A strand for the room,

the orchards, his father

opaque as a lover within them.

Under a tree the wadded coat.

The way back to somewhere

is only a wish until waking.

Then the darker fall, gust

of whiteness. The tree a lung

spread on the window.

All night, the lawn snowed upon

blue as a shirt. Each instant

recovered, meant to grant

clarity, though what he wanted

to see has now been forgotten.

No further, and no return.

Not even the ten plagues, what

each body has to live into.

What the pharaoh lived.