still hidden back there among house-plants
and rubber sponges?
For surely the blessed moment arrived at midday
and now, in midafternoon, lamps are lit,
for it is late in the season...
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...And where shall we go when we leave?
What tree is bigger
than night that surrounds us, is full of
more things,
fewer paths for the eye and fingers of frost
for the mind,
fruits halved for our despairing instruction, winds
to suck us up? If only the boiler hadn't
exploded one
could summon them, icicles out of the rain,
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