Swan Lake
Two swans float
Steuben crystal
upon a lake of mercury,
a kind of necessity, in excelsus,
a kind of perfection,
a kind of hatred.
As the dusk comes on,
pale ghost galleons
glide in full sail,
like sweep hands of synchronized clocks
over the tarnished shadow
of quicksilver,
the mothers' invention
of perpetual motion
without moving parts.
Plumed lanterns swimming in soot
fork light
to protean water:
The swans, with feathers
of slivered glass
tickle the tocks of each siren second
with the flourishes of unsounding brass,
the trumps of these gabriels
play taps in the braille of shimmers.
Heraclitus,
the man behind the frieze,
throws a lever in the waterworks,
and the river of time runs in reverse.
Sisyphus draws the bow
of an archaic smile,
shoots an arrow
back up Entropy Hill,
and bullseyes the Big Bang.
And this presocratic brain,
is pricked like Leda, in the tempus fugit,
by Zeus' primal honk.
