Sure, water is persistent, direct, as the sky
asks for another chance, a day say of granite.
This illusion that your handsome particles
will suffice. Death so far. Death so far off.
This illusion vast in the oaks the pines comes
off like our beautiful interest in things, not
a Problem but a Pause.
Finally to have said
we don’t know you and we can’t wait to know you.
We figure you’re good for another hundred miles.
We will invite you and your shadow tonight. To
do without your comfortable archaisms we’d just
have to forgive ourselves. To make a living.