Then I knew it was dawn
through which we passed
as through a series of revolving doors
backwards into night
where the tender
red of the pomegranite
lit the lamps in the womb,
the last morning
or the first,
the always-not-yet
morning
where mounted on the horizon
the irons we used
to brand the animals with their names
sank back into the alphabet,
and the prows of ancient islands,
heroic, lapidary torsos
swayed untroubled on the harbor,
answering yes to whatever asked,
to carpenters’ gloves
hanging in clusters from their trellis,
to parapets and mines,
to the furious mineral silence
of the chairs.