The dawn makes fools of us all.
It fills us half full like open barrel drums
left out in the rain. There's no excuse,
except to say: we stand
among crystalline mist, the yawning light
teasing us to immortality. We prune angels
with gravel and future memories in our pockets,
like poltergeist stars. Midday reaks of sweat to us.
Dinner--an inextricable film of causality.
At night our dreams exist as double entendres.
Only in the stretching illumination, the ensemble
of spectral waves and negation, are we
forever beings of suspension, beings of bent light,
constantly unable to know inelasticity, and here is where we live.