But from deep within the ground, and in the mist

I smelled flowers. And I was confused. I thought

For a moment it must be summer and not winter,

And that I would see, if the mist suddenly thinned,

Not a stripped thorn, clinging to the grotto’s rim,

But a blooming honeysuckle bush. I could taste

The honeysuckle on my tongue, a taste that was faint

At first, slightly rancid. But as the mist grew thicker

And thicker, golden now, softly vibrating, the taste

Grew stronger, and more sweet, like the taste of ether,

Until it seemed as if I were standing in a cloud,

Or a hive. I looked up: whiteness, milky, lit from within,

And, like mother-of-pearl, something, not clear, a shape,

The shape of an owl or a snowy hawk, hanging

Perfectly still, the way a hawk will hang for hours

In a stiff wind, but there was no wind. And the shape

Was not an owl, nor a hawk, but a shape my mind

At first resisted, the way my mind sometimes refuses

To make sense of words that are perfectly clear,

Simple words, spoken slowly and with great care,

Because the words are so improbable, or will tell me,

Good or bad, the thing I most wish not to hear,

“He is dead,” say, or, “Take up your bed and walk.”

Below that shape I stood, a pointed shape, golden,

Not a hawk, nor a boot, nor a silk hat made of mist

Yet still somehow distinguishable from the mist,

But something else, until my mind gave in to my eyes,

And the thing I had not wanted to see, or thought

I could not see, hung suspended above me, a face,

The head on its long neck of the doe I had found

Beneath the honeysuckle—such a frail creature,

Too small to have been killed, so small the hunter

Could have carried her home on his back had he so desired,

But he had not so desired. And I knew it was that doe,

Though I cannot say how I knew, her narrow face small

And dark and shining, until the mist closed over it,

And it was gone. And then, almost at once, the face

Appeared in another place, and again the mist closed,

And again the face came back, as in a game,

Until I saw that the face was not one but two,

Not two faces, but four, a flock of small deer, but no,

Not a flock, and again my mind refused the shape

Taking on weight above me, four heads on four long necks,

Attached to one legless body, one golden swollen body

That smelled of fallen fruit splitting in the sun and shone

The way an image from a dream will darkly shine,

Floating up from childhood, a hand holding out

A piece of torn bread that turns for no reason

Into a block of honeycomb filled not with honey