Winter 1995 • Vol. XVII No. 1 PoetryJanuary 1, 1995 |

No Other Heaven

Startled, by the hectic shuffle of wings, As if someone Were pulling several knotted ropes Over my roof, I sit up in bed to listen, the night backing off, As the blushed moon Fades deeper, and is by now Somewhere else, Flashing its bright shield in the almond leaves, Ten thousand miles From this one sound in the sea's light.   Later, in the afterthought Of long rains, dark pools in the thin Edges of dusk, I'll remember, as I always do, That one moment of separation, (Something I should have done) And the night,            rushing in like a river. But I don't want to think about The irredeemable past. Instead, consider the bright rose,              the choral odes, In the Paradiso, cruising east—With everyone else. We're all heading straight into the tip of the orange sun, Rounding the curvature of those presently dark hills, On both sides, white fields, Dry and

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