I look at the lamp I see the day recede
the couches chairs cushions magazines
and books that paperweight made
from the ashes of Mt St Helens
the drunk Chinese poet my daughter
brought back from Tibet's border
Crown Point and Rooster Rock
painted by Leland all the light
withdrawing returning
the small statue of Siddhartha
not so small in the dusk
from its place on the mantelpiece
the fire cold dead unbuilt
not even one ash of memory
bowls too thrown by potters
on five continents all falling
into each other as I look and look
as the light dares me to quantify it
this mystery under the floorboards
beating loudly this erstwhile friend
trapped for ever behind stones
enough water enough outside
the melodious laughing thrush
claims its nest in the cedar loudly
the claim sings out daring me
to say why it matters
daring me to admit finally
that what I see is a reflection
of a reflection
outside the bird calls out
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