The stream is frozen
except what’s flowing
below what’s frozen.

You are in bed
and Antigone’s dead
once again though offstage

It rises from the North Atlantic’s stacks
as radio silence, a generalized lack
of discursive tone or narrative movement distinguished

And now the objects return. Chief interests
of their divine secular lives no longer
idle. Thought anticipates them, but they aren’t

Sad storm of objects becoming things,
the objective correlative, tired of me
as I am of it. I embody everything it hates

Reclaimed from brushwood,
from coarse rank grass interspersed
with stagnant bog water,

The round white knob
on the dresser drawer—

Consider the white space
between words on a page, not just

I don’t read.
I read Rilke and bleed.

          The light that changes
the light that goes out