Cross and iris
Cross
The falls were not, as usually they are,
kilometers away from where we parked,
but close. In deferent stretching-out, the old
and patient masonry supported poles
erected, there and there, to hold the face
of upwelled stone attuned under the plane
of leveled asphalt. Water brought the pine
and maple stands to bare their aquiline
potential forms: in prows, or masts,
to bend and crackle, willingnesses shared
with every bolt that, bolted in the gorge,
allowed the bridge to wax a little towards
the falls. And we just crossed without a hike,
kilometers the water took elided.
--
Iris
Fibrous iris,
tides on the painted coast
of the pupil,
a leak
from a broken rind,
or the veins in a cow's face,
the iris regurgitates
whatever the pupil swallows,
the smooth,
quiet life that went in,
now emulsified
like light on the thin edge of a pane,
milk in a ceramic bowl
as a neighbor tumbles
down the stairs,
vibrating as if to announce
that it is finally
full, at first
stunned with the plumes
of its catastrophic source,
but nevertheless to announce
in the awesome tone
of an apology
for accepting the ensuing bargain.