I thought I’d found a sight; just a hollow
in the undergrowth. Mistook
kaleidoscope for telescope;
a vacuum in the scenery. A white hole.
Filled with snow, it weighs like a diamond.
The crystal staircase winds and builds. Urchin rose opening
finally, what have you done meantime
with terpentinian abilities and oil?
Color’s ways of dissolving itself; airwaves have ways with pictures in heat.
Dunes southwest of here turn to others. Snaking
sideways, you look to your prey like a twisty kite,
a quiet gap in the sand, maybe a rope of snow.
One block upon another makes a bastion. Within a perimeter
of stairs is a funny room with lots of corners,
ornaments, clasping hands.
The thumb-doors open.
The generation of indoor symbols
came of big weather. Heady turbulence, thin
bodies, masonry, glass panes grouping the difference.
Spaces between fingers are cold as windows.
Concealed in layers of air, water, ice;
the whole thing wobbles.
Cup your hands and
Here are the people.