Estill Pollock
from: Sonnets to Orpheus [after Rainer Maria Rilke: Sonette an Orpheus, 1922]
I.ix
The dead are listening. The lyre's note halts
their world, its orbit
cold around a colder sun, the still vaults
prised, urgent with it.
We have no mouths, and yet the dead speak through
us – poppy-bled dreams,
percussive iridescence – all we knew
skimming the extremes.
The lake, silvered with a silver sky,
rises as it falls.
Water mirrors pain.
The earth we remembered, its weather sly
with beginnings, crawls
out to meet the rain.
Page(s) 115-116
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