Left by the dead

About the holding of the brush

A certain distance from oneself,

As if it could bite. And the same thing

Of harmonic laws: triads or bird

Calls, scanned from afar. 

 

It is what we often claim

To see in later works – expression

By the tools, with the human

In another room or gone

On an innocent walk – in Keats,

For example, an entire season

Hanging to a coattail; Bishop

Flipping through the National Geographic.

 

It has to be an act,

I say, ending a line

That departs from reality

Around 9, yet I step

On the balcony and it’s all

There: choral gnats, blue-black

Space, melodies in the streets.