The Rounded Eyes of the Pagan God

Are exitways for the Soul—
and so the eyes half in awe, half-dazed
to house so great a magnanimity
never close.

Rock god with your look
of surprise, be calm. The Soul peers out
but rarely goes.

I, Putative

    for Henri Cole

Barer than January maples, bare abandoned hives:
the bees silenced in their harvest rustle.
Like as to like, the soul
quiets, if soul it is, this bee box
in the chest. What outward presence
calls to inward space, drop your wings?
And what unclaimed interior complies?
Oh the flatland reveals its field of golden
stubble, and oh the sheared stalks
do not cry out. No, the chaff flutters
in the midland wind and the wings of the dead bees
quiver in the box.