Glass

Convinced of the unbridgeable gap between words and things,
The only chasm that can really yawn, and yet, observing, too
These wild swans, insinuating
Their glass necks, whose arched velocities
Plunge by the broken
Artifacts of the lake, he vowed to construct
(For what Gods, whose blue hair the moon
Light, pin-cushion of stars, whose red locks
The dawn, then curls?)
A boat, a floating tomb, in which he could set
The lost edges, crumbling, like bits of plaster and glass.