FOUR POEMS
Primary Sources
I in the quiet and oak
Cores of the house stripping by (To rest my eyes' over-reading) The mellow of a candle. My bed Expectant, comprehending.
I glimpse From the glint of the wood, the grease Droplets' waxy halo. Along the warm Dusk of the stubble, sheep In Suffolk with a wool-wax grey. They stand As still as candle-drops in the soft sun, The mellow of October; patient and Doomed in a world of Neon, nylon. I who Nurture an ancient house, blur my Fingers' ends to its needs, also . . .
in a world of . . .
Until morning And the comb-and-wattle sun Wyandot the wall. The wind at work with The maple beacons that flame, that flash at the pane. October argosied.
Our nearness to a star.
Then sap of morning At my core declares my Primacy also. Men Are among the burners. Reality Their halo, they stand Alight and seasonless. The house, As I tend it, burnishes.
JOHN HOLLOWAY
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