By Infinity

If the horizon—if the line—

pulls at the eye--pulls a thread

between presence and absence—

is a suture—is a particular resistance—

makes a net of thought—names

a before and after—pulls harder

at what's closed—until there is

a way to leave this—to enter

the coast—to dim the mirror—

to pretend another place for

the wrong bones—for grammar

in stutter—for a dot whose want

to join the line is felt at point—

is every line—is felt in every net—

in every absent trapping—in every

furthest point that reaches every

further point—the verge that holds

its own and knows the distance—

invites the open limit as washing

the face on waking—from brow

to chin—a fold now for the eyes

to close again on the brief shine—

Ten Second Windows

Light as incandescent & loyal.

Loyal as a kind of submission.

Submission as a final saying.

A final line to mark a count.

The line from here thus departs.

Shadow as blame, a fine, a guess.

The line the line. It radiates

its own idea of bareness.

A script. The line here wrong

& final. A business.

Light as incandescent & loyal.

A high dormer over a sleeper.

A far windmill stealing breath

again. Moth from lung, hand

from chest. Song offered to no

address. A pin in wind tracing less.