Windows, being pregnant at dawn,
quiet surrender of the soul of birds
sepulchre insinuation, lapsing as sun
perforce arrives to dust the air, colour
the happyblind force, thick figures of
consciousness at none debarred in this
apprehension of time.
Joe’s in the river in a yellowwhite slant
of sun and gulps of spat salt; loaming
in the interior where gayly churchbells hale
a seven note bagatelle – enough air struck –
from cold to hot and vice versa; I see him
clear in every logical stance, statuesque,
limp and lively in every absence, scene
zero, clear in sudden recall here
and here