2250

2249

2248

2247

2246

2245

2244

2243

2242

2241

2241
At the terminus
Is a space bereft of motion
And a sky not a sky;
Is a concourse figured beyond sight
Yet within its measure,
Seething with its very being.

2240

2239

2238

2237

2236

2235

2235
I hear your voice in the water's
Divergencies, the turn of the lock
In a plastic curtain's patter:
It's the measure of a pattern in love's ear
That hears what it desires.

2234

2233

2232

2231

2231
The Times on a table in a room
With a wall of glass I'm not there
Like a frame at the Modern
In the brightest oil simulacrum
Of sunlight to every canvas
Edge, shot with a skein of lines
For the spare inhabitants,
Black as the shadows of a sun outshone
By real light not perceived
But propelled in an absent eye.