Its eyes, as ice clings to pond’s eves,
lidless and always staring,
focused sideways, transparencies of detail
not so much like the pond itself…
Yet so much like your own self
that our breath breaks it apart—as if
in kissing its too hungry, inhuman lips,
we could find a final ecstasy…
As if we could be in the pond as fish,
as if we could be strands of quicksilver,
or strange messenger gods come to spawn
in the oily slime where all our seed must grow.
But we have stood in this water before, you and I.
Our old eyes have watched the old pond thaw,
watched it glow. Oh my land,
move lightly through the air again.