X

Everything that falls falls in patterns amenable to an equal

geometry of whose functions I know everything, or perhaps nothing.

The object of descent is of no consequence no less

dry cones from old pine than cynosure unhinged from firmament.

No less the corrugated years slipping mute off my cheek

like steamed wallpaper to uncover this brick wall of anger.

What I but star or fruit watered by delicate rainfall

of whose skies I know nothing, or perhaps everything.