Coruscating ashes of the maple,
like the advent of a migraine,
the bristling light both promise
and a reformation,
take their time, as it were.
We would return to those antique
particulars, having returned
would go again.
The opaque light scours us, acid
on metal, wiped clean,
re-etched once more—
twice bitten, once shy.
The frigates shape themselves
over the fields
that offered ridge-and-furrow
to each century in fallow turn,
shadows still visible.
How should we look,
when looking is suspect?
The eyes have been blind, blinded.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 37 Number 5, on page 32
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