Here are the ragged towers of
Stepped down the slope in terraces.
Through torn spaces between spearing
The lake glows with waters combed sideways,
And climbing up to reach the vine-spire
The mountain crests beyond the far
Paint their sky of glass with rocks and snow.
Lake below, mountains above,
Turrets of leaves, grape-triangles, the labourer stands.
His tanned trousers form a pedestal,
Coarse tree-trunk rising from the earth with
Peeled away at the navel to
Shining torso of sun-burnished
Breast of lyre, mouth coining song.
My ghostly, passing-by thoughts
Around his hilly shoulders, like those
Around those mountain peaks their transient scrolls.
He is the classic writing all this day,
Through his mere physical being
All into nakedness.
His
With outspread fingers is a star whose
Concentrate timeless
Onto the god descended in a
With hand unclenched against the lake's taut
Flesh filled with statue, as the grape with wine.
