Two translations face to face
It’s late night, but the room is bright, lit
where a painter works with his back to a window,
its dark panes held by a white wooden cross.
Will he turn?
If he does, will he notice the cross of mullions
that’s been there longer than he?
Will he see
in the glass darkly and maybe
straighten himself a bit?
Will he see through
the glass darkly and startle
to find more than stars? A wavy face
out there in the gloom—glowing large and larger
over his own—its tide rolling in—sky growing light—
air warming him—and his tired eyes held in that stare.