Not unthought of, exactly, but a dark inside knowing
like the wind’s fist knows the gnarled hollow of valley
where cyprus sprouts unheeding out of rock
--and we’re under the cyprus, on the rock,
wearing the brown cloaks of a time before opera, and yet hear
the gothic strain of it swirl around our heads--
we are in the valley, still uncertain
what it is that keeps us grounded, keeps us from flying
into the dark sky.