So the morning—stained-glass,

sheer milkening and a steadfast

over it like feathers.                                                                                       

                                            Somewhere in the rift

a question—about the seeing of beauty,

even at this hour, everywhere—

about his part in it: the green-as-an-emerald,

the slop of caulk where the fittings

have been redone.

Still, to solder two worlds I draw a shoreline;

I have stopped asking,

as a man just now catching, or just now,

as if for the first time remembering, some faith—

the particular turned-down smile of the one

whose work,

                   despite caution, perhaps

because of it, remains brash against

the resounding glitter of the waves—

which is it now—pouring in?

Pouring out?