Classic Poem

Despite the perfection of the reflected sun
which burns the water that holds it

Despite the perfection of the bullet-holed clock
that spoke its last twelve and turned to stone

Despite the perfection of the pause between a cabbage
and the shadow it casts on the grey-tiled floor

Despite the perfection with which the creeper's roots
dig below the rock on which the house stands

You search for your true name, scrabbling in grass
that's drying to nothing in the perfection of the sun's gaze