seei ng a c racked mirror
where your rod crosses the swe lling
di sc, you bring to mind
slow Linco ln sta ring past co lumns
o f hi s fasc ist-h ea vy templ e,
ac ropo li s confining
a man; poet o r hero, bo th
ca ught, bo th a lo ne. We get
to visit the basement now;
we ma y think of Col eridge
spelunker o f mind a nd gidd y
pilgrim in Mi chae l's grotto .
In
th e dripping cell a r we wa tch
the marbl e leach in th e Linco ln
Memori a l basement, ma rshy
cell a r poo ls a t Potomac
wa te r ta ble coaxing
ghos tl y sta lactites fr om stone.
1 1
Coleridge in a romanti c Ma lta
chasm, looking a t thirty
women a nd boys do ing
o f a ll things-chores!-the was hing,
bea ting shirts, and the zoom lens
o f hi s o neness-seeking eye
tracking th e ha iry " just
like a ma n " legs o f a woman.
Amazed as Tu Mu in Chi ang- nan, as
th rea tened, ma n looking
with gra ppl ed-fo r courage a nd some
chee r a t thi s lowe r-cl ass,
brooding, commo n, lower-case
spectacle o f the beyon d ;
hankering after caves, pilgrim of cave and chasm ·
the no tebook man with hi s pencil;
hi s mini scul e sublime.
