Pound’s Grave


The trumpet dwindled, and the bow wave
stopped at the battery of mooring-posts,
leaving us alone with death island
the graveside with its dwarf hyacinth
that rustles in near perpetual shade
beside the bay-laurel.
They are making up a ceremony.
In a hiss of speeches the sun begins setting;
the ambassadress leans her head
into her husband’s shoulder. But Pound
has arranged quarters beyond ceremony
in a wilderness, from which the lagoon
twinkles with small furnaces, their roar
absorbed in the misty shrine of water.

They have spent your life in glass
framed by enamel, your eyes
hard as a camera; and if the mirror
shrinks in bitter ovals, thickens
or grows monstrous, its images
stay fixed and lunar
like a weight of fire.

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