Yes, everything that is truly seen must become a poem.
—RILKE
1.
Worrying the bone of the future into slivers of the past.
Staring out the window at halos of light, the alley trees,
night sounds assembling into tiny monostichic poems,
a hum, knots and blooms, algal minutiae, matchsticks, kindling,
ascetic archways rising and falling, telephone lines
that bridge the rainfall to fulfill a promise written in filaments.
Zones of thought, mimic-markings, allotments geared to suffer,
momentous shapes that seem to belong to another world,
ways of concerning the air like cottonwoods prone to flower,
the farthest away waving like a child being kidnapped.
2.
Transparency, and the attrition of falling leaves.
Clemency, and the abstraction of sparrows.
Truancy, and the absolution of stars.