Spectra Part 6

ANNE KNISH _Opus 135_

IN a tomb of Argolis, Under an arch of great stones, Where my eyes were sightless, groping, I touched this figment of clay.

Forgotten vase of immemorial Greece, Colorless form!

I have entered to the blind dark Of the tomb where you have slept forever And with the dreams of my importunate hands I touch you in the profound darkness.

You are cold and estranged; Yet the ends of my fingers cling to your porous surface.

You are thin and very tall; My palm can cover your mouth.

Your lip curves but a little; Around your throat My two hands meet, And then part as I follow the swelling Rhythm that downward widens, And I pa.s.s around and under, And the returning line Ebbs home.

Beneath your feet I touch cold marble; My hand returns To sleep upon your breast Dreaming it warm.

EMANUEL MORGAN _Opus 79_

ONLY the wise can see me in the mist, For only lovers know that I am here After his piping, shall the organist Be portly and appear?

Pew after pew, Wave after wave . . .

Shall the digger dig and then undo His own dear grave?

Hear me in the playing Of a big bra.s.s band . . .

See me, straying With children hand in hand . . .

Smell me, a dead fish . . .

Taste me, a rotten tree. . . .

Someday touch me, all you wish, In the wide sea.