Our plane has already been de-iced
but sleet comes over the wings again like a coating of dust
on the wide leaves of a rubber plant—

Lost souls in Chekhov watch the fireflies emerge
from the woods, haltingly, and mope: "One day we'll know
the reason we have lived and why we have worked

You wake and reach for the phone. No one is harmed
if you call your wife to claim you have seen the Pacific
at dawn, running for miles over the quick

“One wearies of looking for all that’s not there
      in Monet, in the brainless shimmer, the whirl
   of his vast ambition, to be absorbed in the airy

Drums. Cannon. Punishing rain. Lightning
          has roused the auto-theft alarms
on Avenue Beaumarchais to an eerie siren-

Our text, class, is chaos. We are its authors. These words,
our illustration, are random and senseless, until the rules
to reveal their sense are revealed, or invented, like the laws of cells,