I. Forecast
And if, after all this time, soft rain comes in
after the fashion of junk mail, intimate because
it does not know you –
In a Storm Glass, crystals
with the exactness peculiar to foreboding
make neural flare shapes:
ultrasound coloured filaments crosshatched with blank, as of
sensation excised and here, preserved in light.
It is tomorrow’s weather
haunting a small room. Clouds, which hurry for no one,
which, amassing, betoken
that undifferentiated grudge some call ambition,
here confide motive without gesture
As if to say There is
another world. It is in this one, this sealed glass,
structure of feeling in place of thought,
where images fold into images the way a child disappears
into the film in which she plays herself.
And when it comes, this soft sell rain,
think of it as small print, falling over
all that you would buy –
.
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II. The Weather Book
But your body long on the bed, flesh
magicked to lifelike; through a pulled blind, light
enamelling equally your eyes and –
In a Storm Glass, crystals
propagate upon a point of light
divisions so fine
as to be speculative: a backlit treasury of scruples,
hermetically sealed.
It makes an icon of patience –
not as ships in bottles, rigged
tricks of possibility,
but that experience be forfeit to this
illuminated scene
As if to say She spent
her whole life trying to haunt the future:
an infinite of loss
closed in the glass, making and unmaking its alike
uninhabitable palaces –
this slump of fingers on the sheet, dear Replica
(and are you gone,
uncompanioned, into the eyeless
air and profitlessly everywhere?)
still in the light that returns to light
and is not changed. |
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