It seems a squareful solid world,
a daylit world, when a gray evening
moon slopes through a curtain
of grey cloud (light frigid, furled).
Its face bent toward pining (yearning
service, servitude). Its pallor speaks
some excess, overflow... weeks
of years of tidal turning... purling,
pearling... weighted toward their end.
When the curving edge of the earth
closes that melancholy eye (a wreath,
red-rimmed, marks its encirclement).
So sorrow hides itself away
like love that looks not to itself -
by a relentless law of gravitation
offering up its life (O gentle ray).
On the slimmest branch
of the narrowest tree,
the smallest acorn - see
it break off, launching
free. To drift downstream,
almost invisible. A pigeon
in a marble niche, a bairn
in a barn. Light beam,
okay? In the bull's-eye of a rainbow
sings a solitary pine, from the taiga.
In reunion with a dome, Diane (Siena
lifted toward you on its bending bough).
Conclusion of Fontegaia, part 3.