A Sunday in late summer, dusk; shadow en regalia
as our man leans against the porch rail
and contemplates
animate leagues of clouds amortizing the light.
Their likenesses amused him like electric tools
and those shapes that happened also happened
to drift away. The trees reached into a sky
that seemed
at the edge of deliverance. He suspected something
that was too deft to manifest; it was so quiet
that evening that his breath, that his pausing
to breathe, was met by something else pressing
against his chest
like a landscape with handsome ornamentals, scattered
boulders, and a dirt road evidently leading toward
distant arpeggios.
rdking