Fallen Tree

We do not have it, and they Who have it are plunged in confusion: It is so easy not to have it, the gold coin, we know The contour of having it, a pocket Around space that is an endless library Where each book follows in a divinely ordered procession, Like the rays of the sun. Yet it was the pageant that you never wanted But which you need now to make sense of the strengthening Of the mounting days that begin to form a vault Above this ancient red stage. The days proceed. Each is good in his role, Very clever, in fact. But it is up to you To make sense of what each has done. Otherwise, in the rain-washed fiasco— Twilight? A coming triumph? Or some other Diversion you haven’t yet learned to recognize?— We shall never recognize our true reflections, Speaking to them as strangers, scolding, Asking the time of day. And the love that has happened for us Will not know us Unless you climb to a median kingdom Of no climate Where day and night exist only for themselves And the future is our table and chairs.