Love and Neglect: A Dialectical Landscape

Stalled in snowlight, one
is constantly entering
by false mirrors. A red pane
suggesting blood, later flames.

Or going about it routinely,
as the air itself, as
the image of air, smoking
in the corridor, like a father.

Still, it could have been
an empty window if I’d
opened it. I saw all the signs:
the anvil placed beside a river,

As it was, the anvil recovered,
flashing once, inwardly,
and then, years later,
the mouth of the river emptied

the burning glass.
Without a word. Without
any illusions. And when
the field first leapt

against the snow, I was
walking back and forth,
like a sandbar stricken by
lightning. Sparks everywhere.
And small waves polishing the fires.