The sun allows you to see only what the sun
falls
upon: the surface. What we wanted was what was elsewhere: cause.

                        *

Or some books say that’s what we once wanted. Prophets of
cause
never, of course, agreed about cause, the uncaused cause: or they

                        *

terribly did. Asleep, I struggle to stay inside sleep, unravaged by
heart-
piercing dreams—craving, wish, desire to remain inside, if briefly,

                        *

obliteration. I cleave to the voice of Poppea’s nurse:
oblivion
soave.

                        *

Not frightening, the word
oblivion
as Oralia Domínguez, hauntingly clinging to the sound, in 1964 sings it.

As the retreating Bructeri began to burn their own 
possessions, to deny to the Romans every sustenance but 
ashes,

Still gripped by the illusion of an horizon;
overcome with the finality of a broken tooth;
suspecting that habits are the only salvation,

I introduce Penelope Gwin,
A friend of mine through thick and thin,
Who’s travelled much in foreign parts

dinah
shoreme
etsthocea

The vegan gourmet will have his way. Lamb chops
will soon be relegated to quaint cabins in the olden days.
The ballooning business of burgers, too, will change,

I slept in the back seat like a bad thought.

I know what you search, going further
Than promised, your refusal to look up
As if something might never be found;

Her breath swung open like a broken shell:

Moving away from rattled towns,
gaining, as a bird in a dishwasher,
an altered view, the owlish lakefronts