on black-and-white TV — a beam
of electrons through a cathode tube
splayed out by a magnet to become
Tonto and Silver crossing
a phosphorescent screen.
Every particle in their bodies represents
the distillation of 100
billion bits from the big bang that
immolated themselves
to become light.
Now even quantum theory agrees,
Form Is Emptiness — mostly.
In the glittering domain
of the Summer Triangle — buoyed up
by crickets and frogs —
Vega drags her rhomboid harp
through an isthmus in the Milky Way.
We need our quietest hours to hear Earth
turning night into day —
to feel it gather its waters against
the pull of the moon —
hydrogen holding the waters together,
and we — made mostly of water —
hydrogen molecules drawn to each other —
wrapping up a bit of breathable
air in their hydraulic embrace —
holding me together, and you,
with a little oxygen drawn in.
How is it that an atom of hydrogen —
the primary substance of all we know —
can be said to weigh less
than the sum of its parts,
and does that mean the total mass
of the known universe — mostly hydrogen —
would weigh less if we could weigh it
all together at once?
Matter appears to be jealous of light —
every particle mad to escape its mass
to be just the light by which we
see our world — without self —
without the distractions of a you
and me, apparently eternal
like an electron — to have
no substance in which to decay.
The mysterious shore across the great void —
a scary place from all you’ve heard,
all you’ve imagined —
never quite clearly in view,
and no one you know
has been there.
And how will you endure your thoughts
in the great dark absence
of everything you’ve known?
Like the terminals of the battery
in a lamp,
matter and antimatter
cancel each other out
to become light.
Why anything at all should exist
is a riddle we haven’t yet solved.
Going and coming, the full moon
and rising sun
greet each other
across the plane of the morning.
“Till later,” says the moon.
“I’ll be along,” says the sun.
“I’ll be around,” says the earth.
“Take your time.”
Near the pole,
the needle of the magnetic compass
spins like drain water
in its dying frenzy —
finally so close to home.
from THE REVENANT
1971
The Freeze
During the night the wind shifted to the north
thawing stopped
and snow dust
swirled across the frozen lake
We pulled back into ourselves
the horses were silent
the air too brittle for sound
The house creaks around us
snow hisses
through the trees
We are alone
wrapped in the wind
I light a candle to write this poem
mirrored
