Cole Swensen

he who was

was an ordinary manwho turned to light a stovewho shadow-flew-on-wall

will nothing there awakelike anybody elsewho, picking up the mail

and so the shattered half—I watched a manwalking down a hill

or in the garden of the darkwatched I his veiland saw within

who now straightened upwith the shearsin one hand and the zinnias

in the otherthe corner of the eyeis an enormous room