He had lived for the sorrow of numbers
& this had made his mind beautiful
& also pure
somewhat
Like a globe of red ink held up
In a beaker before the light of the setting
Sun by a woman in a white smock who
Without question desires him
If there is any
Equation he cannot yet complete
It may be that of red ink ≠ blood
Thought it may also concern the ellipsis of
Sweat along her lips
Beading a bit like the light in the beaker
As he puts his hand around hers for only
A moment & the liquid swirls a little
In the bottom of its glass bulb
& he awakens quite suddenly beyond his dream
Of riverbeds erased by snow
An ostrich at her egg
A boy asleep in the high heavenly forest
Of innumerable & open arms
David St. John
Born and educated in Fresno, California, David St. John is the author of Prism (2002), Study for the World's Body: New and Selected Poems (1994), No Heaven (1985), and Hush (1976), among other books of verse. He holds an MFA from the University of Iowa, and has been the recipient of a Guggenheim Fellowship, a National Endowment for the Arts fellowship, and the Prix de Rome in Literature. He teaches at the University of Southern California in Los Angeles.
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