Appulse

Light, drifting on still waters, like a gull That floats asleep, make room upon that
breast— Too heavily jeweled for such sheer rest
As he, who entered quietly at lull
Of the tide, needs. Impinge on his deep calm, Wherein lithe, avid, little bodies
swarm . . .
Your cool flame, like a lily’s, cannot warm, Resuscitate, his chilled and needy
palm.

Yet be a shining stillness in the world That foams about his edges—a bright
norm Of light, encircled on all sides, a-spin, Where thought at its own axis
may be whorled Motionless, as at the hollow of a storm
That twirls with the winged things it sucks therein.