after Rainer Maria Rilke
His eyes are no longer fugitive, barred
By metal that diminishes return of spirit.
It seems intolerable, this endless passing
Behind which nothing exists, no world.
His gait rhythmically wanders around,
And around, devolving into the tiniest circle
Of life, a bazaar of glances. It is an exhibition
Of great power stunned numb against its will.
Only sometimes does the shade lift, and the pupils rise
Without sound – an image enters. The rush roars
Through the tightened silence of taut limbs, alive
Now in an instant ambush of the heart, and dies.