A boat on the river leaves no wake.
The water, patient.
The sky here is white; the sun oblique.
Miles away, the half arc
of a bridge is like a pencil mark.
A smudge of silence.
And closer, though it is still unheard,
a plane no bigger
than a fly seems caught (as if a third
element between sky
and the small island, with its shadow.
A long sigh of gears

shifts. Cars in a blue parcel of light
are drawn to their one
purpose. And there, below in the streets,
a boy running, figures,
the couples moving in slow measure,
doors flashing open.

And now, how it seems that each thing's weighed,
here, just as it is)
it is with us. The milkish light
pouring. Pistil, stamen
of the arched day lily, half open.
The door as it was,

still ajar. A dense odor of earth,
of another time
tilted to the axis of summer.
And around us, being
seems to glide like the sun, look! pausing,
filling, a bright gleam

moving on. My hands where your hands were.
Here. Now. Suddenly
gleaming, all of it opening. Air.
Lips. The better angel
of my being called, it seems. Yes, called
to honor you.