1.
They return to trade
places, they come back to play
among wet stones under
the fence along the path, to
fly out from sockets of air.
Not to imagine changes—
static to movement, gray to
rusted metallic—cropped
onto the brightly zoned
animate debris. To look,
to be held by a form
on the clock’s deadpan face.
Just below artifice,
trillions again arguing for, or
molesting, the body’s revision.
2.
O browned alley of restless
leaves
along the edge of sight
there is nothing
to capture
the halted yellow stick
bow tied to tree
stooped naked trunk
these
additions that amount to
selection
the way a vessel slides
yet unclosed if you happen to see
needles filtered
disclosed then
as if closer than light
disclosed as motion
whose scant repeat
over and under
knots the frame.