Winter 1964 • Vol. XXVI No. 1 Poetry |

Begin Autumn Here

Unbuild the form of heat upon the scattered and displayed shapes of slate water. Here the half sunken stone sharpens its mirror to cold silence; pines wait wind's collapse to sheathe them in no sound; stars cool in night water. Here build, too, illusion. This stone-and-root-cross-writhen ground grows bone and nerve, decays. The bold hemisphere faces harsh dynasty. Angry suns glare and wheel back, and night blanks. Even we clutter the springs of our outriding air with our bad wisdom and brainfall of debris. Our world will wreck on despair yet. Still water will slate, stone shine, star drown. Illusion is as real as real. Imagination is what we are.

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