instruct us
in so far as
it doesn't.
The most striking
brushstrokes
or words
of a poem
are, at best, crumbs
of dust
which the weakest shaft
of errant light
that meanders
though a window
may seem, for one
bright moment,
to transpose
into a road—
but the end of that line
is a cul-de-sac
where we loop
through the circle
of knowing
what we knew
as the marvelous friction
of that fraught recollection
warms some frozen
feeling back.
