THE PONDS OF BOSTON

Some pitted by rain like spotted mirrors, others
green and smoky as Venetian glass,
choked with weeds and hidden
in the woods, some shallow as the palm
of a hand, and clear to the bottom, bright
with koi; still others dark and turbid, stirred
from underneath, some salty to the taste
like tears, brittle surfaces on which the water lily
and the hyacinth unfold, proliferate—
(and if a church bell were to strike, they would
shatter like a pane of glass—)

Across Chandler's Pond, the medieval
stone towers of Boston College; in a darkened
room a student reads about the future
from the past, his life shining quietly
within him like a lamp turned low—the brief
gleam of a flashlight, the cottages
reflected darkly in the water, afraid almost
of themselves