My Hamlet pulls his yes through an architecture of yeses
though it might appear that he merely negates,
sitting in the dark after murder,

From a sky sand-brushed and blurring, rain.
Plants on the sill heave signs of loneliness.
The lamp glows, a pendulous jewel hung

Two flights of stairs through the narrow hallway,
entrance into a single papered room, the lover floating
above his beloved with head turned under neck to kiss her,

Widowers have more dignity.

The flames starting from the ears.

That’s what I say: it’s worth a try.

Meet me, meet me whisper the waters from the train
    window and the small
      skiff adrift

End of autumn. Deep fog. There are chains in it, and sounds of
                                                     hinges. No that was
                                                     birds. A bird and a

Sound rises. That is a law. I live in this law. I do not
                                                     want to make anything
                                                     that rises. These words

For some of us the only way of knowing we are here at all, going
across and going down,
exquisitely temporal though at no point believable; fragile; tragic.

Stopless wind, here are the columbine seeds I have
collected. What we would do with them is
different. Though both your trick and mine flowers blue