In the Garden of Moma



In the Garden of MOMA

Movement in the pool at some distance from the fountains

is long, intricate, at first taken by surprise by

and then reconciled to

imminent cessation against the far wall.

We did not begin here, but here we will end.

The water moves through marble,

whose smooth perfection allows

the element full realization of its nature,

free of the  multiple detours and imperfections

which plague the natural world.

Water, of course, must be contained.

This is the source of its apparent freedom.

The pool is finite—small, in fact—and, despite appearances

the water must, at a certain point, turn back,

undetectable beneath itself,

just above the greenish bottom.

Must fold. Repent.

Return to be once more fountained up,

once more make its way in chops and glidings

under the blue, dry air.

One cannot see oneself in it.

One will see the color of his clothes

and the color of his body madly distributed,

like shards of stained glass in a bombed cathedral.

Does the water miss its role as mirror?

Difficult to tell—though, of course

it may be mirroring something other than us,

something moving as it does between the profundities,

suggestible, implacable, shaped by the order that contains it,

wholly itself in the instant

before it turns and starts again.

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