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As across the street light forms hang in trees, branches bare
and scaled and remaining leaves caught in the frost and curling,
lung forms hang inside of us and the heater buzzes and a bird calls
so long and so forth. We are known by these things like a painted
aviary or the inside of this shedding
light, the easy disaster come forth to weep and so to seed the
fallow land. But as the early morning sun and wind whisk the curtains
with cold, what becomes important is that these are our hands,
our handled areas of light, patterning this, gleaned through the
coats of mellowed gold and silvers
or the paths they make in the sky or on the canvas given up to
a likening rendered in paint and stillness, the easy disaster pictured
as a stranger, there, standing so lean and so cool to the touch
as we concentrate on the bus stop framed by the window and the
streetlights click off into another variation of dawning
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