by Mark Jarman

    To raise a stump¹ of rock into a tower， rolling a stone

    in place as the years pass.

    Strangers who only know your silhouette² bid it farewell and

    travel to Japan，

    Cross China， venture into India， to Europe， and， changed

    by time and space，

    Sail home over the bulging³ eye of ocean only to see， when

    landfall looms⁴ in view，

    The stump of rock——your tower——on the headland， and you there，

    rolling a stone in place，

    The edifice⁵ apparently⁶ no taller， as if each night you had

    dismantled⁷ it

    And every day had raised it up again.  To know， only in

    completion， the nisus

    That dominates the spider when it spins， the bird building

    its nest， the gray whale

    Turning toward Mexico and the sea lion clambering up shingle⁸

    toward its mate——

    The nisus of cairn-building， rock-piling， mortaring stone has

    dominated you.

    It dominates the reader bent⁹ above the book， poised¹⁰ like a

    stork¹¹ hunting； like sleep，

    It is an utter unity¹² of will and action， known——at least by

    man or woman——

    Only when it is over.  And when the work is over——tower

    building， poem writing——

    You hear gulls¹³ cry and see them kiting at the bull terrier

    out in the garden.

    He has snatched up some strip of bloody¹⁴ fur they meant to mince¹⁵

    with beaks¹⁶.  Best to detach it

    From his jaws¹⁷， let gulls eat refuse like that.  Go out into

    the damp twilight¹⁸， feel

    The chill along the arms， through cloth， and take the petty

    morsel¹⁹ from the pet dog， toss it

    To the scolding gulls， down the rocky bank beyond the garden.

    And lead the dog to food

    Inside the kitchen.  Enter， expecting to see the woman， the two

    sons， and your place at table，

    Waiting.  And find you are alone.  Even the dog at heel——

    vanished.  The stone house

    Glumly²⁰ dark and a dumb cold coming from its walls， that only

    whiskey cuts.

    The cold and dark conceal²¹ much， and memory must be evoked²²

    to penetrate²³ them.

    Meanwhile， they are the elements that starlight loves.

    Clear cold， pure darkness， outside the window，

    Beside the guestbed， where you have planned to lie at last，

    viewing the pure， clear stars without

    Obstruction²⁴ by the crude suburban²⁵ dwellings——that absurd roof，

    down there， like a coal scoop²⁶，

    And the spite fences either side your property.  Nothing

    in creation shows

    More the supreme²⁷ indifference²⁸ to humanity， despite the patterns

    of the zodiac.

    The stars， like bits of crystal ground into a griststone's

    granite²⁹ rim³⁰， are small themselves.

    Only the surrounding emptiness is great.  Take comfort in the

    emptiness； lie down.

    The drink will help you sleep awhile alone， without her， until

    that section of the night

    You've come to know——that region you once sailed through

    peacefully， worn out by work and love.

    Now， stranded³¹ there till dawn， sleepless³²， it will not matter

    that you foresaw the planet's end

    Or our end on the planet.  Only sleep will matter.  At that

    hour， in those conditions，

    Just out of reach， receding³³ like the dark itself as daylight

    pushes in， sleep only

    Will be the thing you want.  Powerless to attain³⁴ what you

    desire， yet bitterly

    Desiring at all costs.  Perhaps， then， memory， not starlight，

    will intercede³⁵，

    And the stone house gather warmth from its hearth³⁶ fire， and

    loved ones reappear， and you will sleep.

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