The streets are library quiet A clarity, hid in the serried facades Serrated trees and telegraph lines Crossing at that infinite point Where perspective fails I put my reading glasses on Finding in the shapes of words, clear and close The world – not so far, gone indistinct We abide in our houses, like rough, disordered books The leaves of other people’s dreams In that owling susurrus A white noise blur In my clumsied restlessness A few loose pages rent Gusting down the road In obdurate branches, catch Wondering if By a kind, entangling osmosis What stray words are crossing in between
