Focus a beam,
Emptied of thinking, outward through shut eyes
On X, your “god” of long ago.

I hobble past. Here’s a window onto a world of moonlit
Cubes and arches in ruins, populated by cats.

I should have worn gloves to the Inauguration Ball, where I
was criticized for my attire—my hair shirt and sandals, helmet
and scabbard.

These are the four directions of the fence: up, down, right,
wrong, black, white, male, female. Nevertheless, at night the
fence points only toward the future, time’s true north.

Across the sea at Alexandria,
Shallow and glittering, a single shroud-
Shaped cloud had stolen, leaving as it paused

Paint blistering on the ceiling of the den:
Excuses gathered speed, helping no one.
So I walked up the same mountain as before.

The plant etched on the wall sits in its pot
as calm as anything—
as any thing not

The thread of the story fell to the ground, so I went down on my hands and knees to hunt for it. This was at one of those patriotic celebrations, and all I saw were imported shoes and jackboots.

Many children’s games depend on a physical handicap. Hopscotch, for ­example, requires a skillful player to hop from square to square on one leg while the other merely dangles in the air, as though amputated so long ago he had time to practice jumping without it.