I feel at my brow the sleeping deaf
Press their violent foreheads up
To touch her, sowing greatly, in the lungs.
And as the crest of her geometry fires
And falls over the river, and vanishes into a bird
As
she walks out, the lances of the sprinters,
The foam of the deer
Float unimaginably still. Tradition holds her safe,
Though we who made it,
The hunters and the hunted in her form,
Seethe in the current, cold, and things touch us:
My great eyes look at me from the air,
And I set my powerful, numb head
And hold through my stone ribs
The water carefully, but where she slept
Is past. I am stiller and not leaping
Back to my face and body rained to death
By the sun, where the spiritless eyes no longer
Are vacant, but know: her naked walking shakes them,
But onto me like no leaf
Falls, in the perfect gloom and body
Of the dark faultless field where shadows move
The forms of darkness dazzlingly,
And take no body back, that ever comes
To touch the bones of his bestial face
To the murmuring wall, late after love.
Tum back: stare in, through the multiple heart
Of proven water. Let your throat re-form.
God
sheds the cloth of air.
Silence turns its following weight
Mindless, to rest Him freshly in the leaves.
Helen! Incorruptible extreme!
We have the blue eyes of prisoners.
