Tuesday, May 31, 2005

The Old Pleasure of Recurrence

The old pleasure of recurrence; even this
turn brings us
back somewhere

When do you think?
Around 11.
Around 11?
Yes, around 11.

Not air, not dreams, not distant shatterings.

In there, rag-time. The window opens
onto a summer afternoon.
There are wind-chimes in the shape of glass
butterflies just outside.

They make the wind less unknowable
in the afterjune.

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