Reading: An Elegy

If  I claim this poem presents the tundra

swans we saw at first light, you might,

wrongly, think of  Yeats at Coole.

Or 9-&-50 other suppositions. In fact,

the blue slate of this lake reflected formerly

some blockchain constellations. Alas

now for mimesis; a star necklace makes

an atlas, windlass, spyglass, free pass: so

you say. But, come on. I swan, who

ever took the mark for the squawk,

the squawk for the Ding

                                    an sich? The weird

ding is, the things themselves, swanning

about, are also mere wavy carboxyl

collusions, un-establishable is-es, noise-marks

hoo-ing, Here! Over here!  Hush up

your eyes: the swans in their ghost forest,

where long needles inscribed

loblolly pines, are vehement enough. Past

the channel, early savannah shine prisms

on grass heads’ fog. Don’t make

a deal of it. Sun dogs will yap soon.

Pinions may clatter. Your head may

stop throbbing. Hold fast. Stop who-ing.