Keith Waldrop

[section FIVE of "Shipwreck in Haven" from Keith Waldrop's Transcendental Studies: A Trilogy,University of California, 2009]

after this, the cold more intense, and the night comes rapidly up
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angels in the fall
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around a tongue of land, free from trees
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awakened by feeling a heavy weight on your feet, something that seems inert and motionless
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awestruck manner, as though you expected to find some strange presence behind you
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coming through the diamond-paned bay window of your sanctum
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a crimson-flowered silk dressing gown, the folds of which I could now describe
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deathly pallor overspreading
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describing the exact nature of your nightly troubles
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discomfort at seeing a surface spoiled
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echo and foretaste
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the entrance blocked, not only by brambles and nettles, which have to be beaten aside, but by piles of faggots, old boxes, and even refuse
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expecting every moment to see the door open and give admission to the original of my detested portrait
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fantastic wigs, costumes, other disguises
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filling up the width of the street
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frequent tussles
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the glitter of silver and glass and the subdued lights and cackle of conversation around the dinner table
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high-backed carved oak chair
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I have omitted in my narration . . .
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in a great raftered hall
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in a tableau vivant, as an angel, sewn up in tights, with wings on your back
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light up your candle and open the window
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lines of your dress, with a hint of underthings
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looking up, our problem still unsolved
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luxurious with heavy silk and rich rococo furniture, all of it much soiled with age
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many questions about the stars, of which you gave me my first intelligent idea
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meanwhile, the snow, with ominous steadiness, and the wind falls
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my weakness for the Ypsilanti Waltz, which I did regard as the most wonderful of compositions
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neat strip of fine turf edging the road and running back until the poison of the dead beech leaves kills it under the trees
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never venturing farther than a sandy beach, but losing everything at sea
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not crawling or creeping, but spreading
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not just out of repair, but in a condition of decay
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only a foul trick after all
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on the face of the judge in the picture, a malignant smile
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profound impressions of unearthly horror
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rambles and adventures among the rocky banks
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the rope of the great alarm bell on the roof, which hangs down
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rough horseplay and quarrels
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sashes that splinter at a touch
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the serpentlike form of the seraphim
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something uncertain at work among the monuments
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the thing on the bed, slowly shifting
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till this particular day has passed through all the seasons of the year
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the vicar, who used to tell us the story of Robinson Crusoe
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waves and their whelps
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while with a sickening revulsion after my terror, I drop half fainting across the end of the bed
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with a pair of great greenish eyes shining dimly out within the lattice fronts
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with painted carvings of saints and devils, a small galvanic battery, and a microscope