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THE GEESE
I saw three geese cross the sky and its complex paling
over the river from the fog-foretelling morning's start.
They gladdened my eyes but not my heart; my heart is ailing.
They flew the length of the shore, out over the clear current's sailing
before the channels branch, and the long tide's muscles part.
I saw three geese cross the sky and its complex paling
cry out to each other, so none would fall, failing;
the other air silent, alone as art.
They gladdened my eyes and not my heart. My heart is ailing.
The river rose this spring past any warn or railing:
nests, eggs, parents, gone.
Adolescents, alarmed but smart —
only three crossed the sky and its complex paling,
denounced Ptolemaic geometers' gold and jewelled detailing
of earth and spheres, the later myth of Heaven's watchful heart.
They healed my eyes but not my heart; my heart is ailing.
No more mornings. No low moving roof of birds travailing
Over and over and over...
No joylift-journey, wingthrust-chart.
Three geese crossed the sky and its complex paling.
They healed my eyes. My heart is ailing.
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