gleam of jet planes
maneuvering around
the snarling jigsaw
of towers downtown,
to waking dream
of each singular flake
of fat December snow
landing and mercifully
blotting out the details
on row after row
of old granite headstones—
everywhere you look,
things keep proceeding
on their own—as if
the music
which first inspired
the dance of our lives
was concluded
by the orchestra
quite some time ago,
but someone out there
vaguely still remembers
how the words went:
there's nothing
you can say;
and nothing's
out of bounds;
and nothing
ever has to
be a certain way.
