I see you from faraway,almost from
noon. You walk through the studies
of literary history as a stand in for worn-out
clouds that never shed footnotes. They
were burnt by the sun's black chalk
approach and dollar bills gazing on a land
of characters fast asleep. We may still
cleanse them with a figment
of our primal indifference. Staples pages
hold greatness in trajectory. You suggest
with open mouth we leave the faculty party
to prevent a thumping rain where under down
pour, dried ink on hands softens and masks
words in talk white bubbles through which
we speak to recount our mutated birthrights.
Not all time forgives discursive acts.
Even within, we pray sequins reflect
the weather in tints. Later we see a key,
and enter home, at least, a sepia photo
of a front door opening. Nothing reflected
we left in it. We stayed up all night coloring
winter in. Before us, someone will come
to adjust in treasure map lines a planet
this day furthest away, departure taxi.