Slowly I look
through my fingers.
Lots of things
feel the same.

Roses for the poet
bloom away from a hand.
Later, the early hours
wait with downcast glances.

Things go on like that.
In your pockets, drying up,
your own, and someone else's blood.
The day slips away.
Your eyes: still
involved with a faint horizon.

Light remains a virtue
for noon.
Mindless, it falls
on objects.

The death of hours
reaches me slowly,
examines my hands
spread out on clock faces.
The complicated landscape
simplifies. The clock
has a feel for shadows.

Plucky perspective
detains the dark
but briefly.

Trees, growing silently up and up
let their cool leaves
fall on them.

A day like
a shining cemetery
or a brief scene
in the theater,
an attempted dagger-thrust.

Tragedies lack
bodily freedom.

Let’s go eat
ice cream in
the shade of a hat.

Only the life of irises
knows about dankness.

A veil of dust
blows across an exposed breast.

Every voice
has gone to sleep in the heat.

The static of objects
that always stay the same.

The red sun
peels an orange.

Freezing in lockets.
From the cold of your love,
those who are dead and gone.

Letters, binding
into a word
in the lightning.

The language of letters from a marriage.

Someone set fire
to a diaphanous body.

“Good fortune has shut
eyes.”