One places one thing next to
another and finds them there.
A sky hangs long overhead, and there is
something there where the eye goes.
If it is these things, the shape that
suggests a line that traces the
mind’s current weave settles here.
A water glass. A new glint of light
as the morning sun moves on.
Here there is reason applied.
Then a hum amidst bleary streetlights.
The light it catches the wall’s edge.
One belies the others. One quickens.
Here and there there are
faint edges to perceive.
(One is a continuity that
nearly reaches its frame.)
It’s like a line
against the sky.
Edges grey and
darker grey, blue,
black. It starts out
from the margin. Its
to define. It’s cold
the line is.