Sharp as an arrow Orpheus
Points his music downward.
Hell is there
At the bottom of the seacliff.
Nothing by this music.
Is a frigate bird or a rock or some seaweed.
Is a slippering wetness out at the horizon.
Hell is this:
The lack of anything but the eternal to look at
The expansiveness of salt
The lack of any bed but one’s
Music to sleep in.
From A Book of Music by Jack Spicer. As printed in The Collected Poetry of Jack Spicer from Wesleyan University Press, 2008. Used by permission.
Date Published: 2008-01-01
Source URL: https://poets.org/poem/orfeo