Fallen Tree

        We do not have it, and they
	Who have it are plunged in confusion:
	It is so easy not to have it, the gold coin, we know
	The contour of having it, a pocket
	Around space that is an endless library
	Where each book follows in a divinely ordered procession,
	Like the rays of the sun.
	 
        Yet it was the pageant that you never wanted
	But which you need now to make sense of the strengthening
	Of the mounting days that begin to form a vault
	Above this ancient red stage.
	The days proceed.
	Each is good in his role,
	Very clever, in fact.  But it is up to you
	To make sense of what each has done.
	 
        Otherwise, in the rain-washed fiasco—
	Twilight?  A coming triumph?  Or some other
	Diversion you haven’t yet learned to recognize?—
	We shall never recognize our true reflections,
	Speaking to them as strangers, scolding,
	Asking the time of day.
	 
        And the love that has happened for us
	Will not know us
	Unless you climb to a median kingdom
	Of no climate
	Where day and night exist only for themselves
	And the future is our table and chairs.