boat/buck of the cock

                          and the hen, or

the poet takes a wife

                                     for John & Lena Sinclair

the flesh of poem

in vision back, as

Byblis might, moves to

total energy. how

dust got

in the eye &

how gristle bit

to bone

bones of poet

as he labors

moon among folds

moon slipping in

& out, with the wind,

a luminous eye

opening, socketed in

the rocks

ankles and wrists of the

bone forest

smell of pine

needles underfoot

jaws tearing at their hinges

cracking, the tongue, a moon

in the ocean:

the curl of the sea

receives the tongue, torn

from its root, searching

eye

socket

sound of buck

through light timber

running

the face a joy-

ous solemnity.

the face the poet wears

wears off, becomes

gnarled with salt, cracks

with the ocean.

words crest, agogees

of crystal, ground

fine, as sand, as diamond,

the ground the sand is

that the sea moves over,

the ground the words are

and how the earth moves,

Mortal, in waves.

words crest to

meet the Imagining

rivulets spread from the pines

to the sea

around boulders

making the movement of

the moment of

the dance

    It

holds, pushes into

storm, the eye

to the ribs, forced

song, lashed to mast

to master, darkness;

bouy, distance, distortion

risking even with the rock

grained granite of

the hand

the word races across the rocks and sand

O Lycia! to fall, a fountain, a freshet,

from the salty limbs that loved the brother,

and pursued what the makir hastens after,

the love, loved sibling, brother, now sister,

running as the brother ran, again, fountain,

or, source, that is, cause, of such

sweet water.

the poet chases with the poem,

handful of hair, spoor of game, mortal gesture

at point, of divining rod held (just so) out,

waiting, for the dip, the slight movement in

direction, the fingers just so on each (other)

on, the words, the tendons coaxing the fragile object

in the air, holding, just so, the tool of the

man, of the dream.

water pushes from beneath

the brown needles, eases

them, away, down, to clay,

pushing, dusty, down from

the feet, then clear, from

the feet, reaching, away.

words move from where we stand;

their sense is the sense of

their spring.

the buck stands,

his moist nose to the air.

the poem

moves to meet the buck

the magic

of signal in his

high head muscle

words move to magic this pur-

suit of magic

the joining of magical

energies

the house of the magic

of muscle

& bone

the cock and the hen

percussion &

detonation

in the magic

of love

love, the magic

focus, the marriage

of the image of one

through   an other

a gesture of form

in the magic of love

the bow of polished antler

taught

we tie the magic down

in the act

our gestures and our words

hold us

the poet holds

          up, with words

words taken

from the woman's hands

her lips

her eyes

words

to hold

as her hand

the fingers strong

the strength in her eyes

in her hands

in her words

held up

an offering.

the stresses of love are not

put upon

by the defining finger

the buck crashes through the underbrush

rain spreads pine needles in fingers

of the hand, strong,

at the feet

the pen moves

as mortals move

to give a sign

of love.   to show

the hold the hand

of the heart holds

of love.   to hold

the magic close of

the cock and the hen, to

magic the mortal move

to hold, to word, to love.

to love to

hold the flesh of

the poem, of the

gesture, the sweet

water of

love.

love reaches

the mortal

dance of

the image

in marriage

of the foresting

hands.

and

an old man, on his back porch,

looks through the trees

and sees the poet

kiss his wife.

— Robin Eichele

Detroit

12 June 1965

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