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.

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