By dark the world is once again intact，

    Or so the mirrors， wiped clean， try to reason. . .

    ——James Merrill

    This dream of water——what does it harbor？

    I see Argentina and Paraguay

    under a curfew of glass， their colors

    breaking， like oil. The night in Uruguay

    is black salt. I'm driving toward Utah，

    keeping the entire hemisphere in view——

    Colombia vermilion， Brazil blue tar，

    some countries wiped clean of color： Peru

    is titanium white. And always oceans

    that hide in mirrors： when beveled edges

    arrest tides or this world's destinations

    forsake ships. There's Sedona， Nogales

    far behind. Once I went through a mirror——

    from there too the world， so intact， resembled

    only itself. When I returned I tore

    the skin off the glass. The sea was unsealed

    by dark， and I saw ships sink off the coast

    of a wounded republic. Now from a blur

    of tanks in Santiago， a white horse

    gallops， riderless， chased by drunk soldiers

    in a jeep； they're firing into the moon.

    And as I keep driving in the desert，

    someone is running to catch the last bus， men

    hanging on to its sides. And he's missed it.

    He is running again； crescents of steel

    fall from the sky. And here the rocks

    are under fog， the cedars a temple，

    Sedona carved by the wind into gods——

    each shadow their worshiper. The siren

    empties Santiago； he watches

    ——from a hush of windows——blindfolded men

    blurred in gleaming vans. The horse vanishes

    into a dream. I'm passing skeletal

    figures carved in 700 B.C.

    Whoever deciphers these canyon walls

    remains forsaken， alone with history，

    no harbor for his dream. And what else will

    this mirror now reason， filled with water？

    I see Peru without rain， Brazil

    without forests——and here in Utah a dagger

    of sunlight： it's splitting——it's the summer

    solstice——the quartz center of a spiral.

    Did the Anasazi know the darker

    answer also——given now in crystal

    by the mirrored continent？ The solstice，

    but of winter？ A beam stabs the window，

    diamonds him， a funeral in his eyes.

    In the lit stadium of Santiago，

    this is the shortest day. He's taken there.

    Those about to die are looking at him，

    his eyes the ledger of the disappeared.

    What will the mirror try now？ I'm driving，

    still north， always followed by that country，

    its floors ice， its citizens so lovesick

    that the ground——sheer glass——of every city

    is torn up. They demand the republic

    give back， jeweled， their every reflection.

    They dig till dawn but find only corpses.

    He has returned to this dream for his bones.

    The waters darken. The continent vanishes.