Estill Pollock
from: Sonnets to Orpheus [after Rainer Maria Rilke: Sonette an Orpheus,1922]
I.vii
Your voice is perfect praise, the purest ore
that jewels the sediments, a freighted zone
of tributary brightness at the core
of planet, ruby vine and semitone.
You celebrate the poorest soil, the scree
seams marbled with still drier habitats.
Lost towns, those lives now archaeology
or less – your lightning spines the ziggurats.
In your song, windows open to the wide
Mosaics, plazas peopled where the bride
Loads out her silk and saffron retinue.
In your song, catchlight intimations pool.
The stoke of emeralds resumes, death's rule
dissolved, a gemstone crush, a spoken blue.
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