32: variations on form, part 2

That sun on the carpet is like
a tortoise composed of light, like
something the poet forgot and can only
recall as a creeping vapor, gravity-flattened,
soon to withdraw or crawl under a shelf, like
a low white sound sustained,
and the luminous dust motes are like
little planes on maneuver, like gnats,
flaming atoms, the nuclei of irritated
notes that have yet to find frequency,
pattern, ear, or synthesis.

That sun on the carpet is like a boy’s
otherworld, an opening, something
to look into and step inside with care and a wish,
where there’s warmth and maybe a spring to follow,
follow to a river to a sea where everything,
even the sky opens, and then the sun goes down
into some other distance, a jagged
black horizon, and now he’s lost,
pathless, noteless, pattern poor:

but he can reach down and feel
for the slow cool current and suddenly
the round and rough of a tortoise shell
and the click of crocodile teeth in the dark.

Or it’s only sun on the floor
above which there just happens to be a window
and the sun
and a poet to write them.