Inside a recondite
quiet—but still
reverberating
eye
Lucy and I
go—midmorning
gliding—darkwet by so many
mildly
agitated spinning vortices
silent—behind their streaky
and soap-
stained shop windows—
that my mind
can't help circling
back—and
back
and back yet again quietly—and each
time with less
and a more-
diffuse sense
of astringency—to how
there's really
no such
thing as—a break in the weather.
