And the clouds come like Columbus Over the horizon, Breaking eggs into suns boiling In frying pans until the Water rushes through pipes hanging low with rust To destroy all the light creeping towards the exits. And remember the seashells sounding, Resounding, the pounding of the ocean Tumbling forward in a thousand showers, Each drop a hammer powering forward Over rocks, through tunnels, Out moss-covered mouths with bats Winging low to scoot across the froth And lift off for the moon. The finding will be magnificent. A single remnant, we clean off Mud, shards of mollusks, detritus collected From everything living, decaying, Like a sliver of looking-glass There will be a reflection Of sunlight, of a quick nervous smile, Of a few trees swooning behind, Depending on the direction We show it to push through To the inside where everything Is liquid, lightning-quick, Touching far above the clouds And swinging back down from A golden, oak-thick vine. Just a pendulum Running the course over and over again To pace in the same arc the Horizon over whcih we know nothing except Sails scraping the ceiling of atmosphere Coming nearer. Then the bed is tangled, All knots and bowties, Watching the sky open through a Poor man's paint-chipping window. There is another layer, another veil, To be parted and sorted through For every last sliver Trying to burrow farther, further into The giant geometry of time And the compendium of things to come On sweating mornings or Drowning, hesitant, cloud-shattered nights.