Are the still
points of the quartered seasons
That light the
dawns which count down to our birth,
A singular malfunction
of design
Which hold within their
eye all time condensed;
A transitory
cycle in repeat.
Until such permutation’s
breath be spent,
These forces
seen to dominate descent
Are the still
points of the quartered seasons.
Are the still
points of the quartered seasons,
Once sang in
quatrains to the ocean’s roar,
Writhing weak
at the sun-seared compass edge
Where woven echoes
quarrel fierce then fall
On bended knee
before the broken-jawed
Who numb them
swiftly to a sombre end;
Which judges, though
histories may contend,
Are the still
points of the quartered seasons.
Are the still
points of the quartered seasons
Seen seldom here
between these numbered days
To conjure from
the widowed mouths, in song,
A verse of praise
which may in turns be worn
Upon a newborn
breast or coffined hide;
An epilogue the
poet’s voice may hark
When what he
has occasion to remark
Are the still
points of the quartered seasons.
Are the still
points of the quartered seasons
Suspended from
a backward-spinning sun
Who, from my
face, cremates the deadened years
And melts from
my mind’s-eye measures of age,
To drown them
wholly in a saltless sea.
The labours of
this beaded sweat shall hide,
That moments
where, unconscious, I reside
Are the still
points of the quartered seasons.
