As a brusque morning
in a room with sunlight,
distinguishments of the day
while the potted plants bend
moist stalks toward
those sunken endpoints
of the solstice range

to what we set our calendars by,
only disrupted daily with the tiny
additions and negations
dislodging the boondoggled

companions, a person
gone missing, a locked-up
mahogany desk, a sealed envelope,
a curious mailman, stale perfume.

An unknown sedan
stalked silently outside
on the street for days
with tinted windows hiding
motive and content
as if a container of the night,

where new moons around Saturn
and creatures in dark crevices
of the unfiltered ocean
rummage only
partially discovered.

What is always stirring is a motion
declared from what startles,

the irrational and rational
equinox in mind would call

an apparitional miracle
from nowhwere brought
to this presence, such as
one half of an aeroplane’s propeller
or a full tin of therapeutic beeswax

fallen from the sky or pilfered
from the clay of the earth,
maybe in an open field, for that matter,
shrubbed colors of a parking lot,

the blocks of components made
soundly available in the shadowy
ward you place notice here and there
in the comings and goings so often.

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