This one is a--
this is a short poem entitled "Wren: Three Mirrors."
Like waking in the small room, looking out
seeing the moon almost down, to the pale trees.
So then the incompletion is waking also,
taking your shoulder and now your hand,
beyond the past method, although beyond is also a quarry.
There by that water, which is also beyond,
two black wings turn in their mirror,
the mirror the tree makes above them,
and then break with the incomplete torture of the shade
descending.
But it doesn't matter, the woman walks her attic,
reaches the house before you.
Why stop there, why climb through the field
when field was just an attempt to close off this silence,
to close, to say silence I have missed you,
like a donkey on fire, like a donkey.