Charles F. Thielman – Ⅳ
Beach Cabin, Notebook
Cyclops pupil rising
to birth a rough beast,
November dawn, the view
of the horizon liquefied by rip-tides.
He’s here collecting a liquid sequence
of nonce words, transfiguring experience,
absorbing the silence of trees shaped
by ocean winds amid the hiss
of wave and undertow.
The calligraphies of night rain gust-blown
through high beams now dissolved
to dawn-hued driftwood. Redwood roots
reach high inside salt spray, wave clap
on hard dark sand, the seventh wave
lumbers in carrying wood, stone.
All his living by complacent hesitation
has written the names of the stillborn
on sails of wave, driftwood shadow
on wet sand, vision weighted
with coin. Sky
pierced by gull cry,
the sun sparks across a line of agates.
The blue doors of his heart slowly open, this fourth dawn,
as if they were windows on new hinges, pen on page
pulling the voice through porous stone,
the seventh wave lumbers in.
Cyclops pupil rising
to birth a rough beast,
November dawn, the view
of the horizon liquefied by rip-tides.
He’s here collecting a liquid sequence
of nonce words, transfiguring experience,
absorbing the silence of trees shaped
by ocean winds amid the hiss
of wave and undertow.
The calligraphies of night rain gust-blown
through high beams now dissolved
to dawn-hued driftwood. Redwood roots
reach high inside salt spray, wave clap
on hard dark sand, the seventh wave
lumbers in carrying wood, stone.
All his living by complacent hesitation
has written the names of the stillborn
on sails of wave, driftwood shadow
on wet sand, vision weighted
with coin. Sky
pierced by gull cry,
the sun sparks across a line of agates.
The blue doors of his heart slowly open, this fourth dawn,
as if they were windows on new hinges, pen on page
pulling the voice through porous stone,
the seventh wave lumbers in.