Scribbled on the expansive mist, the desire
of many dwindles to us
and our “activities,” wholesome
or otherwise. Soon it becomes apparent
that neither they nor I have any prise
on the fabliau’s demands of unity.
We are aching neither here nor there.
The tent caterpillars shrug off the tent, and proceed.
Was there a maxillary half-buried in the silt?
If so, what were we doing in earth-heaven?
Times came to be, trembled
on the tilt of a sword’s point and slid off
into the grass. See, there was no warranty.
It’s not like stuff you send away for
and it comes and you can’t remember
why you ordered it. These, our time, were like grain,
necessary and inedible. In time the minute palace got chucked.
We were standing on the green, putting,
and our recollections came to resemble history:
serious, but not too serious,
redundant—and so on.