Denise Levertov


Flickering curtains, scintillations, junebugs,
rain of fireflies low in the rippling fog,
motes abundant, random, pinpoints of intelligence
floating like bright snow…
A world, the world, where live shell
can explode on impact, or, curled elaborate bone,
be an architecture, domicile
of wincing leisurely flesh.
                                             The attention
sets out toward a cell, its hermit,
                         the rapt years all one day,
                         telling and telling beads and vision—
             toward a river forever
             sweeping worn stones without impatience,        
             holding its gesture, palm upraised—
but at once wavers: the shimmering curtain, wet strands
of hair, sound of the thick reeds jostled by what they hide,
life on the move, a caravan of event. Water an intermittent gleaming,
pools, marshes, a different river.