Zürichhorn

Treppe im Abendlicht, Spätherbst
 
The black vast
of night isn’t yet.
 
You look to the lake.
The light plays
 
its trick. It’s the one
where the woman’s
 
sawn in two,
where she goes into
 
a swoon that intuits
her stint
 
in the sad-house.
And dawn is a lousy
 
dozen hours away.
How many days

will it take to undo
these undue

wreckings? You wrack
your red, wrong
 
worry and sieve
for an answer that lives

but to grieve it
Look, look, look to the lake.

Then leave it.