let us imagine
but at noon.
Displaced though it
from its main gig—is not this old blighted sheet
finally free? as gossamer—to reach and to touch,
with weightless impressions of fingers,
all the enticing brightness it sees
so much as a living atom of stuff
with the corporeal pressure of intention?
Less than a whisper,
more a great legend,
a true hero—a non-thing that influences no one;
enveloped in its stainless mission
and flapping not
after such hot and cold running things
or the heavy
of pure poverty—hoping only perhaps for a little more
purity of spirit, if we
can even call it that at this point, but
you get the idea.
instead of—why didn't Ithink of that?
How would it be
if you just sat
of it now?