Stoic mathematician,
efficient wizard,

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

I have no hands now
to touch or take.
I am all eye.

I lay cold beneath his coldness,
stiff in his stiff embrace.

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

This din and this condition. Thinking thief
who nicks and strips and skitters all away
as conscious night will dark a callow day

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

In discord this incipience, disregard.
You are unhappy with the slant of the windows.
You eat an egg for breakfast, and are ungrateful.

In the world of friends, where travel is slower,
What do you do there, in the world of rain?
Who shares the segments of your tangerine?

We fly above Kenitra
Circling so low
I almost smell the fig trees’