Lakes

The lake of ice is lacerated with blanching scratches.
Figures merry with winter move on it and freeze
Spewed out of somewhere by blind time
That burns on and is there.

The second lake above, crossed with gashes of light and cloud,
Which has been the eternal witness of time and abided with it,
Is surprised by a sharp-tipped circling aircraft or some other moon of man,
Splitting its waves wide open.

The blueblade knives of the ice
Will be like flowers in remembrance
In which the shades of snow glide down
Like silver and like wool.

Before melody flickers its last on a lake
And the knowable world is passed away.