You

I thought to find You in that space
just to the left of Tennyson
that made the mist shine in his eyes:
those bellying tears about to break,
that shimmer of things not gazed-upon
alive like whitebait in his gaze,

for that elsewhere is nothing strange,
is no less than the dark in sleep
which needs some sheen to make it thrive:
an abstract moon, or wandering stars
that Yeats wrought in a fiddling song.
You, too, could make the darkness change,

could take the night and make a womb,
could give the emptiness a shape
and fill it with a flood of light.
So I pursued You in that place
but still and wide, where poets watched,
as on some corner in a tomb,

lids roughdried with a wind of years,
for something moving in the void
made vivid in a flash, a bolt
that proved the dark was really nothing
beside the vanity that is ours,
and that gravid absence that is Yours.



And still more blind swiping in the dark... though this was composed recently, mid to late 2000's.