for Lara Trubowitz
It's a kind of rapture.
Light held
in a cloud
of atoms colder
than the spaces
between stars.
*
What season will the first
minutes after
resemble?
Will all the illusions graft
back on? All the nights
and days, insatiable?
(the raft of voices)
Orpheus
and his song.
*
And spring's shaven
black ocean loosens
memory's remote
isotropic hunger
in sudden
downdraft
(a March storm
in cold crossing)
as the last of winter's
incursions
breach and lash
at the vertical-
until summer's
enormous magnetic
fields cull and crest
in alternate, white sails-