In that year I was perfectand in mourningBlue glass tends to replacelapis, I look out and it's
winter: from my window
I see only afternoons, white
silent trumpet flowers, each
abiding in its proper exile, come
to better terms, wrong air
where voice is theft itselfTamper, tempered, sun throws me
like a shadow, very unlike a day
between two rains (and indescribing, it was that nothing
which defended me, dearest
unknown, dear why, why notas well: presenceof thing without a thing)Hedge, thicket, shawled
shrubs, picket of foliage, leaves
green, browning debris: yellow
trees in series, short histories
of color (four hours
of purple, four hours of red):
raw vessel of wet winds
left wordless, eventualWherever risk accumulates
and he unlooses all the wings,
shifts picture planes, tectonic
plates apart: petty exterminations
ruined by gone (our lady inthe tense "not yet," many
things being there, you are
elsewhere), the dangers of lessSelfish, I keep all these for me