NOTES FOR A MYTH

A hand thrust out of the flames, a feather-slender
white and impossible hand on a delicate arm.
No body, and no burning; still; in form
a girl's: but phantasy or salamander?
Ringless, the wrong shape, dead as alabaster,
it was not like, and yet - oh friend and sister - 
by its immune acceptance of the fires,
	I knew the hand was yours.

A hand grew out of the wall, strong-fruiting flesh
more deeply rooted than the brick and plaster;
the fingers flexing; dark; in cruel gesture.
A man's, but huge as pain to seize and crush.
Blunt as an oak-leaf, knotted, bronze as thunder,
it was not like; and yet - oh friend and sister - 
by its immune acceptance of the fires,
	I knew the hand was yours.

A hand grew out of the wall, strong-fruiting flesh
more deeply rooted than the brick and plaster;
the fingers flexing; dark; in cruel gesture.
A man's, but huge as pain to seize and crush.
Blunt as an oak-leaf, knotted, bronze as thunder, 
it was not like; yet, by the alien grandeur
that gave it empire over mysteries,
	I knew the hand was his.

A hand swam high on the river; slimy lustre,
as if of pearl-shell, silvering its death;
blood on the nails; on the torn wrist a wreath
of withered petals clotted, and a cluster
of drift-weed that would slowly draw it under.
It was not like; yet in that last surrender
I saw the myth and all that it should mean,
	and knew the hand was mine.