The memory of Lisa descends again
through night’s hole. 
A rope, a beam of light

When Lisa told me she’d made love
to someone else, in that old Tepeyac warehouse
phone booth, I thought my world

I’d had a “good night’s sleep,” meaning
thinking of waking, and waking,
shifting closer together, and then not.

As I was saying it’s a never-ending getting
closer if you will, a class-unconsciousness searing
these ears for a lifetime, and by then it’s time

So torrents of the Seventh,
Fifth and Ninth. Riverbeds of
Bach, Beethoven and Amadeus
rapids of the sky, peaks and pastures

Where did you go to, when you went away?
It is as if you step by step were going
Someplace elsewhere into some other range

The orchard grew excellent,
Good mass of apples assembling, one angel burned, looped
On the wire fence, in a bowl of gold most satisfactory.

The tide covers, discovers, recovers, and always walks in the nude.

The tide weaves and unweaves, embraces and separates, is never the same and 
never another.

The tide, sculptor of forms that last as long as their surge.

This is the platform of the famous sideshow,
all of us participating, glad to be arm and arm
as spring charges down the battlefield. Let’s see,

I know what you search, going further
Than promised, your refusal to look up
As if something might never be found;