The first will no doubt begin with morning's
Stainless-steel manners and possibilities
Out of number. Sunlight scold too much？
So a tense gets thinned out with solvents1，
Preternaturally bright with the will
To swap2 laziness or pleasure for paper money.
The future may appear as a winter day， colors
Of the facades3 like frozen jellies and sherbets，
Palaces of frost in crystalline order；
Then fall into shards4 at the approach of fact，
A needle of starlight aimed at your heart.
This one has all the force and danger of
Randomness5： image drips into daydream6
As waters gather to sea level and go
With the tide. Clouds. Chain lightning.
The waves move in like destroyers. And-
And only subside7 when， for example，
I sTOP to prove a cup off-center
In its saucer. A door closes， footsteps；
The night outside warm and silent
As an underground parking lot； askew8 stacks
Of books and papers； raw material；
Clues to a life. Because it's the time
Of pain-always the same-and pleasures：
Taste， touch， work， walking， music-not one
Of these trivial and all incomplete.
The last was always a famous storehouse；
Or you sit down before an amphittheater
Of tiered keyboards， repertory of sTOPs；
To choose diapason. bourdon， vox humana-
A stone wall， the shadow of a leaf，
The gate I saw and then the grass
Running in place before the wind.
The place of the mind moved on， just
Failing to be everywhere at once；
And reconstructed an autumn afternoon
From the highest window， when the buildings
Forcing up against an imposed sky，
Fused into background， embraced the park，
Rested. The last baseball players
Swarmed9 around a tiny diamond template；
Man and his games a perfected miniature-
Like the past you almost don't believe in.
Yet it's there， behind perhaps a blue veil；
Sturdy； calm； unless put out of countenance10
By drab standards of exactitude.
The last word was never， was always
about to be written； so that none of us
Could know whether hope， become action，
Exposed to the elements-a bronze monument，
Negligible among the surrounding towers，
But somehow truly central-would corrode，
Crumble， dissolve； or weather into
A fact of nature， continue to be
