Under a mountain or under

a lake, drifting with bull rushes,

or waiting like ore in black silence:

this is some kind of beneath.

I mostly know what the still small

Voice says, I close eyes and doors

and It speaks but now

It hangs voiceless as unmapped

catacombs. There is always some

terrible beauty in dense,

shrouded things.

I wait, and that is more powerful

than stone, cavern, mountain, lake;

it should surface

but stays speechless.

My love says things snow drifts say,

it says what a field lying fallow

is too mute to voice.

It says there is nothing more I can do.

There is always some terrible beauty

more powerful than stone,

cavern, mountain and lake.

This is some kind of beneath.