862

861

860

859
Too mortal for this frame,
That boded sky so lightly,
And busied once this winter tree
With all-present contention--
Now--pristine feather--
Is it warranted to say,
After this death, no other.

858

857

856

855
The haze at sundown slant
Break that shape anew;
The dryness and the dust--
The fucking dust in every glass--
And hell's term intercalated thus
With such fine grains
As richly inutile as my handed means
To render death its gravity.



[image of Matthew Brady photograph]

854

853

852

851

850
That parenthesis the shadows--
The venetian whisper
Congruent to air touching light,
As if a thought in brackets
Tense for motion
Resides in a shimmer
Complicit with calculation's hidden eye.

849

848

847

846
Of circumstance but a part,
Sufficient to a consequential hour's
Span occult--
One infinite within the next,
As primes countless but subsumed--
As end of means precedent.

845

844

843

842

841
If prose were possibilty
The words might trickle Up
To topple at one thought or two
And fill a smallish cup.
A simple vessel would suffice
To hold a liquor odd--
Of sunlight or eternity,
For toiler and a god.
Intoxication with what is
Unseen by daily eye
Is possible's distillation--
Sensibility to descry.

840

839

838

837