If the horizon—if the line—
pulls at the eye--pulls a thread
between presence and absence—
is a suture—is a particular resistance—
makes a net of thought—names
a before and after—pulls harder
at what's closed—until there is
a way to leave this—to enter
the coast—to dim the mirror—
to pretend another place for
the wrong bones—for grammar
in stutter—for a dot whose want
to join the line is felt at point—
is every line—is felt in every net—
in every absent trapping—in every
furthest point that reaches every
further point—the verge that holds
its own and knows the distance—
invites the open limit as washing
the face on waking—from brow
to chin—a fold now for the eyes
to close again on the brief shine—
Ten Second Windows
Light as incandescent & loyal.
Loyal as a kind of submission.
Submission as a final saying.
A final line to mark a count.
The line from here thus departs.
Shadow as blame, a fine, a guess.
The line the line. It radiates
its own idea of bareness.
A script. The line here wrong
& final. A business.
Light as incandescent & loyal.
A high dormer over a sleeper.
A far windmill stealing breath
again. Moth from lung, hand
from chest. Song offered to no
address. A pin in wind tracing less.
