Inchoate lily fronds, and tawny gloss
Splaying across a dim pond
While dilatorily he surveys himself,
In thought upon the water's rim.
Torpor-limbed, his face is half
A mask of shadoweeds that stem
And drape the cornered air. Still tendrils
Of light bask
Through foliaged emerald fins.
Echoes arouse a slim rush
Opaque of sound.
Yet what may we ask of him, this Narcissus?
Whose potted alabaster eyes
Confabulate shade through amber —
Whose frail heft of self sifts
In fissures of supple tented waves,
Their dark ventriloquy adrift...
I am eyes and stare alone, his
Yawning image seems to say.
And waterwed, he, as with the surface,
Preens and stays.
Yet admit no matte of ebbing moonlight.
No lush garland of earth fragrant from stars.
His vision, two ribbons of froth, floats
Splendid in sloth, ever unwinding
Over clay moraines and tin fjords that crumble
Like a lazy knee around him.
In this hour, slick of mud, where suns
Like a mustard seed, willows flay, where winds
Copulate spore and dander, he sees
Only communions of colors sexed
With wafting waterscents that are nothing else
No pure possession may be dredged.
No blur or sulphur iris but his own.
This ground is sparse, engorged
On crags and parched, blank
As if the hollowed rondure of
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