Time of yellow whiteness, unexaminable,
our eyes purpled in quickening blindness, too bright,
the bay hot ash, surroundings fully melted, fire
of unconsuming strength far greater than spreading
river or lethal tide. And one has looked away,
called by the small clicking sounds of this home stretching,
on the edge of the abyss of stellar power; tea cold.
And yet, the human isn’t entirely unmade;
small details grab against the powerful shut out.
A half-built flat roof, is it? shiny stream
in a dry landscape; blue, perhaps rollered, already
congealed wherever glimpsed; rugs of matt dead ocean
sometimes glistening, a dazzle mixed at the farther shore;
the Hayle mouth in conflagration, many words
lost and more feared entirely dead. The burning sea’s
inbound, the observer participant at once,
big, just where observation is irrelevant.
In all things. The church bell clatters out the quarter.
An whole hour shriveled, learning how not to look.
|