Too long is this moment,
In its foreseeing of hours
That are memories of hours before.
In this narrow street
An encountering rain alters sense to the depth
Of a drop of water,
A present snared
In sparks of light
That constellate the grayest sight.
When you see the breadth of what you see,
There you are:
An interior dialogue past the verge of depth;
Abbreviation, surface, the whole in small,
That sees its particular infinite,
From point to furthest star,
With a sad and finite eye.