A lonely impulse of delight
Drove to this tumult in the clouds…
—W. B. Yeats
Illumination as found in each mask,
as light is formed anew by its rainbow:
fish, like stalks of sun swimming in a glass,
rise up to look at us: largemouth bass, pike,
sunfish. It’s more a liaison of wills,
than an endorsement of spring’s prism,
it’s more a mark of the sun above
what surely must be invisible: the density
of hydrogen. But breath can be a burden too.
Despite our icy efforts of illusion, the mask about
to be our companion starts to shout. This mask
of ivory and wood, it says, can’t speak of this task of ruin.
This Hog-as-Cloud, this Hog-as-Sun, this liar.
I won’t trust its lips; my ribs are on fire.