King David

 That far rise drifting in its first mute buds
Brightens and freezes through binoculars,
Shadeless grain of the giver. As if grown
                  From goldweed to be yours—

Sprays of some pale infinitesimal
Erect, detained. Breathing comes differently
As I grasp them. And blackbirds, unheard,
                Claiming them nervously.

And there shall come before him to stand naked
Bathsheba, and the network of her veins
Shall noose for his gathering at her collarbone,
                The map of her compliance.

Simple enlargement breeding density
In space, eagle’s iris, apocalypse
Without a sound. . . or giving to the hand
                The eye’s power, perhaps,

For on that day he will have sent the husband
Promoted to the front lines, a speck, a mote.
One tapestry crowds all toward the foreground,
                Pressing toward the foot

Of the high stair on which Uriah kneels,
Breveted by the sword of David. Smooth
To its white underweave goes that stone, worn
                By the loyal knee smooth.