名人诗歌|Counting What the Cactus Contains

Elf owl^{1， cactus2 wren3， fruit flies incubating}

In the only womb they'll ever recognize.

Shadow for the sand rat， spines⁴

And barbary ribs^{5 clenched6 with green wax.}

Seven thousand thorns， each a water slide，

A wooden tongue licking the air dry.

Inside， early morning mist captured intact，

The taste of drizzle^{7 sucked}

And sunsplit. Whistle

Of the red-tailed hawk^{8 at midnight， rush}

Of the leaf-nosed bat， the soft slip

Of fog easing through sand held in tandem^9.

Counting， the vertigo^{10 of its attitudes}

Across the evening； in the wood of its latticed bones

The eye sockets^{11 of every saint of thirst；}

In the gullet of each night-blooming flowerthe crucifix

Of the arid^12.

In its core， a monastery^{13 of cells， a brotherhood14}

Of electrons， a column of expanding darkness

Where matter migrates and sparks whorl，

And travel has no direction， where distance

Bends backward over itself and the ascension

Of Venus， the stability of Polaris， are crucial.

The cactus， containing

Whatever can be said to be there，

Plus the measurable tremble of its association

With all those who have been counting.