Forbearant clouds—

frothy with ruffles
endlessly adjusted,

airy shoulders turning
and turning away
so slowly, no pose
resisted. 

Or burgeoning into 
clear air, or deep-veiled
and misted, or dispersed—
without protest. 

Or, in the late afternoon,
floating like deserted 
cities, on a translucent,
cyan lake,
swallowing darkness 
before the sky does
high above us—

who stride the shining earth
for this brief
startling moment.                        

like the quiet pool
where I swam, alone,
in a hotel at dusk
in a Northern country,
a somber pool in a barely-lit
room, low windows looking out
on the ink sea almost 
filling them, a sea
of banked black fire, like the inside
of my eyes, dull sheen
flushed here and there
with the ghost purpling
of an unseen sun—
or my own long looking…

as if—even when immersed
in the soul’s darkest
hours—giving one’s self
to darkness
faintly lightens it.