what will time, if time alone will tell, tell:
will the sound of telling soothe, and will the
substance agree: will shrieks of alarm break
out of the pacifications: or will the sounds
work their way down becalmed: how many times,
round so many rocks, the brook water narrows
and ruffles before it gets away, reaches the
lake’s undulant mirror: water then flows
through water, unlike the frail insect, caught
inside, trying at the window to fly through
pane glass: a buzz so moderate it can’t be
heard, like the death of a friend on a
snow slope with the fields cracking crisp, ice
ice: and dark coming: a rising wind slitting
sleet up the chasms