Dawn at that hour
Brought on her kindly light for ill mankind,
Arousing men to labor and distress.

While the soul is our creation, anyway I take care of mine,

Among many leaves I step on a letter
That begins I love you dearly.

A soft, motiveless conversation that might never end
In a country of size, so beautiful days did not finger each ear.
Near one end grackles, the birds in armor,

Where are my robes, my sword, the minted coins
inscribed Pros Doxan…? I ascend my throne.
When the Bishop, bearing unction, comes

The sea’s tedious soliloquies
drone and repeat
against the rinky-dink dock

Old wolf, I said,
leave a tatter
for my family:

The moon isn’t looking for solutions.
She’s grown accustomed
to partialities,

 It’s nothing. A blue wheel blurring, and a wind
catchless, clicking at a window’s high
startless framing—a fixed, transparent eye

1.

How do they get so close to the window,
a tree in figment, arithmetic moon?
Summer broke you, winter builds you—