There is As much light In a glass of rain As the work Of flowers’ basking faces The strayed mischance Slanting by The boards’ sopranino-clef I thought of you Left the glass Drained to the pale silt Of passing Sunday afternoons On the ledge Almost unseen The way a drop On a broad green leaf Swole to a cyst Pours away A swan passing With that complex Treble-clef insistence Of her bent-necked attention Veils and shrouds Are almost the same In the way they hide your mouth Broke from reverie With the kind of equine start That warily insists Hand inadvertently flickering Against unseen adumbrations That slight, eroded horizon Fell to winter’s shards The blood drops leaching From lax fingers, raised to lips The warm, silent taste Too bright to dismay Another shallow sunrise
