Waters, hypnotic, long after moon-set murmur
Under your window, and Time
Is only a shade on the underside of the beech-leaf
Which, upward, reflects a tiny refulgence of stars.

What can you dream to make Time real again?
I have read in a book that dream is the mother of memory,
And if there’s no memory where—oh, what—is Time?
So grapple your dream! Like Odysseus, the Cunning, who leaped
On the mountainous Ajax, and snug in that lethal embrace, while
Heels slashed at soft knee-backs, rode
Downward the great crash that
Bounced the head of the victim on hard ground, and
Jarred teeth from jawbone, and blood filled
That mouth from its tongue, like a grape-cluster, crushed.
Yes, grapple—or else the Morning Star
Westward will pale, and leave
Your ghost, without history even, to wander
A desert trackless in sun-glare.
For the dream is only a self of yourself—and Jacob
Once wrestled, nightlong, his angel and, though
With wrenched thigh, had blackmailed a blessing, by dawn.