1382

1381

1380

1379

Death has no being to she who dies,

But a mass of bronze to the breathing,

That the last exhale in a quiet room

Lies over the sunlit day

With a metal weight,

Its daily business sudden-false,

Mis-scaled to a purpose

That was small a breath before.

1378

1377

1376

1375

1374

1373

1372

In medias res is human

As time and action's

By thought and hapless volition born,

By hazard breathed.

At what point is a tale if

A leaf fall and re-direct the eye?

A cry in the street summon memory?

1371

1370

1369

There is a perfect quality in the cricket's voice

That grammars a late summer's city to country manner

With trilled points and stops,

Commas to part and render

A hubcap, arthropod, urbantree's

Thrum as a season's hour,

A paragraph of sound.

1368

1367

1366

1365

1364

1363

1363
The measure of belief's not mouthed,
But held in the hand or eye:
Warm for the grasp,
In the reflection embraced.
The mind is fed from the body's purse,
That's with its own interest compounded;
The expired breath but a vapor makes
Upon a mirror of opinion,
That repeats what is repeated.