What passes within and tills beneath strangely fleshed
Like shadow in a winter wood at dusk
What passes without I knew it once where not to look and where
For pilings seaweed and shadow line
What passes without words is the unbidden yes unlooked for
Claim to spare dream— the between,
And singular annunciation—
Witness the still lake in my eye
Lake where witness is ice and thaw
You are not simply
This nor even that not sweet milk not red-tailed
Hawk shimmering on the power wire
Solitary like bread you fill and bind and rise within the silver hollow
Of me determinate and
The water darkens on the graveled stone twice in the night lightening a thin
(it would hurt us—were we awake):
and you out of me
Like a pale star
yellow and so thickly star—
I could not gather you in.
“Witness the still lake”: from Dan Beachy-Quick, This Nest, Swift Passerine, p. 3.
“It would hurt us—were we awake”: from Emily Dickinson, 531.