To what to be close? To white tiny
hairs on the ears of night?
To hold such office
at the darkest window
of the tallest office blight?
To syncope, sliding like a cloth
off the shoulder of a planet?
To round of circle, to blue
of sty? To oryx, to Arabella,
prefix, suffix of thought
and feeling, evolution’s
dear uncertainty,
delicate cosmic thing
of a robin’s egg
cupped in child palm?
To the rigging
in which it all lives,
to the marble faun
at whose feet a crush
of styrofoam cup?
To his archaic street,
satyr’s sense of smile,
an author of white stone.
To slickness of soap,
to barren coin
of monster emperor,
to homeyness, homelessness,
none the better
for any difference
is how shelter
managed to conceive
itself? To what
to hearken, to hold,
to burrow, to invade,
to throw to appetite,
to mourn, to forget,
to be, without knowing
one is? To telescope
shut in the end,
to hold the infinitive
sense close
as the apple
reaching out
from the tree’s
core, a score,
somehow, to
her, to