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<title>frederickmorgan.com: poems: Poems of the Two Worlds</title>
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<span class="title">Poems of the Two Worlds</span>, 1977 <span class="limited">limited edition</span><p>
<a href="pub_poemsofthetwoworldslimited.html">Click here</a> to learn more about this book and how to purchase it.<p>
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<table align="left"><tr><td>
<strong>VI</strong><p>
A rose dawn, in smoke, over the East River:<br>
light is reflected from the keel of clouds<br>
along Park Avenue's soiled streaks of snow.<br>
My sense attends the shiftings of the cold.<p>
Something—something reaches out behind the semblance:<br>
dimness with claws, brutal and serene.<br>
The sun rises across pale roofs of asphalt.<br>
A car stops at the red on 95th, which clicks to green.<P>
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A man with a briefcase hurries to the corner,<br>
hails a cab, speeds off in a spray of slush;<br>
the newspaper boy in scarlet stocking cap<br>
trundles his squeaking cart from block to block . . .<p>
How shall I fix your shape or speak your name,<br>
great glow-eyed Cat crouched at the roots of being?<br>
This traffic of shadows between dark and light<br>
obscures the pure insistence of your gaze.<p>
And yet, extended from invisible sunlight,<br>
it's straitly in that gaze the shadows live,<br>
rehearse the permutations of their fates<br>
and win such vision as may view themselves.<p>
Somewhere, in an antiworld,<br>
a man has risen and looks out from his window;<br>
his face is mine, but if we should shake hands<br>
all worlds, thoughts, gods would find their fiery end,<p>
being reduced to simplicity,<br>
God, who are Any, All and None — in one.<br>
Now, please, retire; and claws be sheathed.<br>
Cold and bright the day's begun.<p>
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