Were all the causes
exactly the same?
Are all solutions, then,
basically interchangeable?
Maybe on the curved underside
of the world's unreachable roof,
of detached imperturbable blue,
marbled though with high
stratus cloud brushstrokes,
time doesn't
fly, it holds still—frozen, quiet,
but without any
of those adjectives.
Down below, in assiduous
city streets, though,
so many noisy ideas,
so many guesses
concerning tempo,
history, chronology, space
hang from each building,
lamppost, and tree—and they
interlock and sway,
stretch and compete,
like the tangled
invisible morass
of beautiful but stubborn-
ly deliberate spiderwebs—that
each day as I
pass, underneath,
I can never go three feet
without having
to brush them away
from my face.
