Elegy

Do not look for him
In brittle mountain streams:
They are too cold for any god
And do not examine the angry rivers
For shreds of his soft body
Or turn the shore stones for his blood
But in the warm salt ocean
He is descending through cliffs
Of slow green water
And the hovering coloured fish
Kiss his snow-bruised body
And build their secret nests
In his fluttering winding-sheet