In the rain-drenched stillness of dawn the
canvas ceiling reflects a just-rising
sun, muted as a memory or a
movement; Motionless himself, the rock man
Can do no more than blink and wait for the
biteful stings of the sun and the eagles.
Nursed by nightfall, blood gone scab--now is his
moment between flames: below Olympus,
Above mortality. So it always
is for our rock man: he kindles the pure
within the impure and surrenders all
mightiness to exalt all but his own
And remain impotent and forgotten
as a fractured bridge, solely fireless.