I set the mirror down in the grass and the ground
Became the sky, the place where I once was. Westward,
The ever-line where the sky feeds the sea. I’m languishing
In a kind of exile—exile, an ancient word—from myself.
The mind is a metaphor; the metaphor, a form of mind.
The mirror (is) on the ground and the ground is endless,
And changed into a point. The lasting things we love
The most—the cello’s long-held minor note, longer
Held belief, fast-fleeing laughter—are music from
Another room, distant from us, with no demanding.
