Reading: An Elegy
If I claim this poem presents the tundra
swans we saw at first light, you might,
wrongly, think of Yeats at Coole.
Or 9-&-50 other suppositions. In fact,
the blue slate of this lake reflected formerly
some blockchain constellations. Alas
now for mimesis; a star necklace makes
an atlas, windlass, spyglass, free pass: so
you say. But, come on. I swan, who
ever took the mark for the squawk,
the squawk for the Ding
an sich? The weird
ding is, the things themselves, swanning
about, are also mere wavy carboxyl
collusions, un-establishable is-es, noise-marks
hoo-ing, Here! Over here! Hush up
your eyes: the swans in their ghost forest,
where long needles inscribed
loblolly pines, are vehement enough. Past
the channel, early savannah shine prisms
on grass heads’ fog. Don’t make
a deal of it. Sun dogs will yap soon.
Pinions may clatter. Your head may
stop throbbing. Hold fast. Stop who-ing.
Source: Poetry (November 2019)