Thoughts of evaporation never cease, Seeping in, like cold up through the floor, While making a sandwich or cleaning teeth. Drawn into an incandescent fog, or Pausing on a lake, as the ice cracks, Boomeranged to echoing spaces, Seeking warm resonance in the walls, Or rich stories, in orphaned objects; Programmed errors repeating, For all the dawn song, and A green haze on the willow. Sleep is a comfort, still, after winter, To escape ghosts coming up through the floor, The narrowing of life—the failure...to cope. All these things a burden to lay down at last, And fall into the arms of distant galaxies.
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