fast, cold, deep

or a dream I woke up


     A Place Called September
     A Time Called the Rhône

won’t heed my calling him

through some drift of date, dreaming

what is late,

my rope-bridge.

But I won’t, in brutal fact
give up on the sink-tests
in beds of municipal pools
where my word-words
bob. Still

on rare occasions,
I see clouds, hear
the sky

—light, water, dust

his swimming—

his way toward meaning farther
            his crawl
through stone dark

what he made room of,

and one night joined them

     the cruelest month ebblessly below
     le Pont Mirabeau

joined them unto each other

a passage between the bones

for Paul Celan