increases, all images
dissolve themselves—
all objects,
in the big
bang, white hot
mania
of their expansion,
are spun into the beatific
clichés of dime-
store mysteries.
Take that distant
undulating
scramble
of pigeons, for instance;
to witness it
hurtle
toward cheap abstraction,
like a cut-rate
cigarette, is
still my small pleasure—although
to not comprehend
what the purpose
or goal is
still my great
privilege.