Straw promise to vowel, up then why or be
forward on bind,
advent kind rested fare so

At your center: 
spectacles to sharpen sight,
wake of two white birds’ liftoff,

It’s that feeling again:
pinecone going
wristbone, phone, eye

Cups and swords the prophet fed from, led with,
and an inlaid box with a hair from his holy beard,
all wrought with gold and strewn with jewels like fistfuls

The strong horseshoe shape of a horse’s mouth
Of his teeth, set that way of a suitcase handle

And the way a bit, in just that way, pulls him:

There are many facts in the world.
Most are passengers, but some
Drive the car.

Sitting down, unfolding
the paper, without looking
you raise the light toward the pipe.

tonight I was reminded of our house in England,
the little record player that always skipped.
Our dozen records seemed such a luxury, although

The light of the moment becoming a memory—
that was their subject: as if the present
could be haunted by its own nostalgia.

For a long time she pretended
she could remember. There were little tricks
involved, schemes and inventions, or so we thought