from Branches

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

compass impossible
to define. It’s cold

outside. Where
the line is.

Mark Truscott (© 2012)