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There, with the black dream ofthe dead canoe Over our faces. Winter Trout In the concrete cells ofthe hatchery He nourished a dream ofliving Under the ice, the long preparations For the strange heat offeeling slowly Roofs melt to a rhythmic green, But now, in the first cold offreedom, Riding motionless under the road Ofice, shaping the heart Ofthe buried stream with his tail, He knows that his powers come From the fire and stillness offreezing. With the small tremors ofhis form The banks shift imperceptibly, Shift back, tremble, settle, Shift, all within utter stillness. I keep in my quiver now An arrow whose head is half-missing. It is useless, but I will not change The pulled, broken tooth ofits head For I have walked upon banks Shaken with the watchfulness oftrout Like walking barefoot in sleep On the swaying tips ofa grainfield, On the long, just-bending stems, Almost weightless, able to leap Great distances, yet not leaping Because each step on that ground Gave a new sense oflimitless hope. Under the ice the trout rode, Trembling, in the mastered heart Winter Trout / 145 Ofthe creek, with what he could do. I set myselfup as a statue With a bow, my red woolen back Climbed slowly by thoughtful brambles And dead beggar-lice, to shoot At an angle down through the shadow Ofice, and spear the trout With a shot like Ulysses' Through the ax heads, with the great weapon. I shot, and the trout did not move But was gone, and the banks Went rigid under my feet As the arrow floated away Under the paving ofice. I froze my right hand to retrieve it As a blessing or warning, As a sign ofthe penalties For breaking into closed worlds Where the wary controllers lie At the heart oftheir power, A pure void ofshadowy purpose Where the gods live, attuning the world, Laying plans for the first green They ever have lived, to melt The ice from their great crowns. Their secret enemies break Like statues, as the king rises slowly, Keeping only the thinnest film Ofhis element-imaginationBefore his eyes as he lifts Into spring, with the wood upside down Balanced perfectly in all its leaves And roots as he deeply has All winter made provision for, The surface full ofgold flakes Ofthe raw undersides ofleaves, Helmets / I46 And the thing seen right, For once, that winter bought. SpringerMountain Four sweaters are woven upon me, All black, all sweating and waiting, And a sheepherder's coat's wool hood, Buttoned strainingly, holds my eyes With their sight deepfrozen outside them From their gaze toward a single tree. I am here where I never have been, In the limbs ofmy warmest clothes, Waiting for light to crawl, weakly From leafto dead leafonto leaf Down the western side ofthe mountain. Deer sleeping in light far above me Have already woken, and moved, In step with the sun moving strangely Down toward the dark knit ofmy thicket Where my breath takes shape on the air Like a white helmet come from the lungs. The one tree I hope for goes inward And reaches the limbs ofits gold. My eyesight hangs partly between Two twigs on the upslanting ground, Then steps like a god from the dead Wet ofa half-rotted oak log Steeply into the full ofmy brow. My thighbones groaningly break Upward, releasing my body To climb, and to find among humus New insteps made ofsnapped sticks. On my back the faggot ofarrows Rattles and scratches its feathers. I go up over logs slowly On my painfully reborn legs, Springer Mountain / I47 ...

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