3. Reverberations

I

Plainsong of water-fall,

reprise of leaf-drop,

peace,

but night is all boom

reporting terror,

the slap of each wave

an echo of origin

where grieved air howls.

II

On my knees before fire,

which is God, which guy,

I cannot tell.

The wind translates

a chemical fog;

it stings belief from sight,

rattles old breath

through my tight throat

under the cut moon.

III

Rockets flare green, splay red,

spatter silver, freckle, scatter.

Sparks hide in the dark,

rhythms run out to a faint beat

beyond the lie of their long fall.

IV

Behind me and full
the house lights shaft.