Living
This hem of
silence keeps in
hymns, doggerel, the rustling
of a world: that self-contained vase.
Up against it, seconds conspire,
resurrect, our time
an interpolation, that
racket of white sound.
Conversion is work, these attempts to grasp views,
voices caught in a beehive sea Gulliver shakes
like a radio gone awry.
Next he tries putting an eye
to the scope curving fingers form.
Darkness, then light squeaking,
the panorama of cracks with, occasionally,
some crystallization as if of a dream which
in a moment
becomes