then as maybe now
every day came
with a purpose
you just had to wait
with an open pocket
it’d slip something in—
a book of poems
a tails-up coin
with a riddle
one day followed
the one before
all in a row
but each one
like dominoes set
if one fell
it was the only
small multiples of life
with a death
each beginning with
the endless susurrus of tires
strove with us through the night’s great room
we trusted to its purpose: home
O does your living make no sound?
The world is large for you to see.
They fly who never touch the ground.
The dream shall pass: it was a dream.
What are the words I have not learned?
I stand before you clean, too clean.
The world has turned before, and turns;
I am unmoved, but fly in dreams.