that corresponds only analogically to "looks like".
So for the hour between four and five
it seems he is splashing down and down through strata
of water or fire: something that wavers as he hits,
resists and then admits
him,
shimmering
in concentric rings oflight that still and still
as he descends, floating, falling and drowning beneath,
until he strikes the next level, and the whole
drama of impact and absorption repeats.
And is this anything but words? The computer model
struggles to feel its digits, and now outside
the birds are waking up, if they ever slept,
if they aren't just an unresting system
that tortures itself with lack of rest
but fortunately it can't feel, or the broken egg
fallen on the ground before it could hatch
is symbol and reality of one,
one at least, who has rested.
The thieving light glimmers and puts back exactly
in place what it took when it left: the dresser
with its streaked three-leaf mirror is ready
to reflect a face that lives or dies
of being here, and is yet not here.
And now he's awake. He hears birds, and there are birds.
And now he lifts his head.
