Figures come out, as darning, as an ash
down from the true clouds as in foil. If my own, skinnier voice there
were to hover in its lamphood and receive, replace
the colored readable wind...
Every minute isn't yet fully sleeping. Lace in the corner of things I didn't say passed
dusklike, like dusk
over a grate—flayed dusk-silk—,
over grated lining. (It had to have a link to the sun.)
Catching the silver-filtered contents as cardboard shapes covered (seeing like
a thought) in them, and are hunted among native mountains.
This ash tree left only the ability to do it; only foil or key missing in its leaves.
I hope it is a boat coming (but it is not)
that sound never observed.
"Permission to Die" from Harm by Steve Willard. Copyright © 2007 by the Regents of the University of California. Published by University of California Press.