Louise Gluck.

Mcgrath, Campbell

An ibis.
A small white bird, storm-luminous
against the green grass.

*

Anchored to division, the world's bitter patrimony,
branch to branch, the mockingbird, singing,
broken-winged, as the wind's tenor deepens and I sit reading on the
 porch,

considering the wind as a lifeform, a vine or liana,
clematis, if that's a vine, or an eel, a lemur, an octopus.
Divided. Fallen from glory or, like the mockingbird,
derisive, grown envious, or merely dismissive.

*

Echo, without Narcissus.
Echo alone, in the silence of the stilled pool.

Flowers in profusion this time of year: whorls of the double-white hibiscus like Chinese globe-lanterns; skin-pink hibiscus with hearts of ruby ink, orange hibiscus the color of a tequila sunrise; archway of alamanda, orange-yellow as the yolks of Italian eggs; ripening lemons, beginning to acquire their garment of color; tiny green fruit of the tangerine tree, at its feet the ancient impatiens grown annual; spiked blossom of the yucca-like plant, a pearly, tropical mistletoe, there, sword or clavicle at the wall's joining; further off some jet purples, some lavenders, and the waterfall of rank plumbago.

*

Globes. Or gloves. Or cloves, or clover, or lover. Or love.

*

Hearing or disquisition,
how would you propose to interrogate me?

I only want to ask a few questions.

I see. Why?

I guess I need some answers ...

I see. So need and desire remain a matter of guesswork?
Inquire, then. Ask what you wish,
if you know the proper form of address.

Inquiry: from what void, what blind absence, do
I arise? Does the I arise?

(Interval of silence. Then, a door closing,
ice-white feathers, smell of burning
incense.)

*

Just as the self doubts its ability to sustain engagement with the
world,
 to cultivate a soul, so risk joy, so take the leap,
jump the canyon, traverse the glacier, kayak the aqua shadow of the ice
 cliff awaiting only the catharsis of echo to calve:
kalve, echo, halve, echo, o, o, o how foolish must be the soul to
undertake
 that voyage, to risk such wrath when I would wreak it myself,
lianas becoming fables, proper rows of box bush become the legendary
 thorn forest the prince must sword to ruin.

Mailman into the courtyard in a hurry now, keeping ahead of the rain--
 its smell, its tactile buzz: bills and catalogs, a harp-stamped
 letter from Donegal.
Northeast wind bearing down upon the fragile shoreline of the island,
 the beach gouged at, torn away, as by divine intention or not.

*

Open heart on the operating table,
oasis in the desert of the body,
pool at the center of the iceberg,
quietism, extinction of the self,
radiant and untouchable chambers.

*

Reader, do not mistake my hesitation to speak.

Silence is both tongue and body,
sword and shield.

Speech is but a robe I gather about me in the garden
to hide from unwanted eyes the beauty
underneath, pistil and stamen,
virulent pollen electric with want.

What is form if not desire made manifest?
What is will if not a language?

What does it matter whose voice I employ,
which idiom or discourse,
which word for the color of ripening lemons,
xanthic or acidulous
yellow? Either way, you are eager to listen.
You are listening now, are you not?
You are eavesdropping despite the storm, following me the way
young children follow any hand that holds their own,
yes, even with your clouds and
your quiver of thunderbolts, o mighty

Zeus. You are still listening.