Two echoes. Two
Two figures back to back
in facing mirrors.
Diminutive, my heroes.
Diminution is at work here
on a massive scale.
Somewhere there are more of them,
there must be images of these
two men receding to infinity
lost in this aerosol of mist.
The eye can't focus from this broken socket of grey stone,
looking out from which
detail and distance vanish in the rain,
hide themselves in insignificance
something of the old gods once again.
Brothers of the rock,
they cling to what they know.
For them the mists have cleared.
in which they climb -
each in his own way:
the outside man
by toe and finger hold
towards his pinnacle;
the other crucified, nailed
to his own rock wall where once the altar stood -
is not of sun or stars,
but past and present hold them
in the same
poor visibility, the same
as each assumes the other's
shade of grey.
In any true perspective
one would dwarf the other,
but today the rain has telescoped their worlds
and pooled their true dimensions.
The inside rock was hewn out there.
Out there the rock
and rock man
towards my God-man on his cross
watching his twin out there across
cocking a snook at the danger.
(if there's to be a fall)
will seem the greater.
I see no place where church and mountain separate.
West face, East wall:
the rain has welded them together.
How would the inside man have fared,
with pitons for support instead of nails?
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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