As a storm starts else­where. As the motion
Pic­tures in which we lose our­selves end
With a stark light flood­ing the bod­ies we are
Left inside: the lux­ury of con­trast pro­vides
That when a plane lands, the sound sur­mounts
Our understanding—it lands too soon, and is
The only song in the sea. Through my shat­tered
Win­dow of Time: even music seemed pol­luted;
All the graf­fiti in the world, inspired to aban­don
Its intended surfaces—somehow reap­pear­ing
Around a sin­gle sil­ver barge; around the barge,
Reap­pear­ing: the con­duc­tor, draped in riv­ières
Of acid, unloads his catch while around him:
A junkie wan­ders, stut­ter­ing the Rosary—still,
By virtue of inven­tive­ness learned to con­fis­cate
At least one piece of equip­ment that would last
Him through the night: a radio, or fram­ing device:
Through which my metaphor for win­ter grew
To encom­pass the over­lap­ping moons, the moon
Obsess­ing over water color trends / appro­pri­ated
Fash­ion schemes—so that, in the false har­bor
Of Feb­ru­ary, just the thought of you results
In a cacoph­o­nous break­down of parts I’d no idea
I needed. Rain sea­son. A sched­ule, both blurred
And decep­tively full, of new pro­ce­dures: prepar­ing
For a mur­der, and now, and again, its reversal—