Not Ideas about the Thing but the Thing itself

The Rock

At the earliest ending of winter,In March, a scrawny cry from outsideSeemed like a sound in his mind.

He knew that he heard it,A bird’s cry, at daylight or before,In the early March wind.

The sun was rising at six,No longer a battered panache above snow…It would have been outside.

It was not from the vast ventriloquismOf sleep’s faded papier-mache…The sun was coming from the outside.

That scrawny cry—It wasA chorister whose c preceded the choir.It was part of the colossal sun,

Surrounded by its choral rings,Still far away. It was likeA new knowledge of reality.