The fifth of a series of twelve written at a shuttered window. Originally published in the anthology Terra Firma.
Corners coincide with
spheres, as from the corner of one’s
eye, or through the belt’s loop to its end.
And how, when I look through the window
may recognition delay the moment’s
gain? Water descends and the line begins moving,
always moving, for it is in motion that we express
the simplest desire, the closed hand in which light grows
when opened, the narrowest aperture laid bare.
The end, as always, chooses itself.