Strange flowers, you say, an operatic
they-are-nothing of morning noon or in
the going-dark day. Just in the absence,
you say, when all the others stop they
come to something in the cracks of our
metallic puddles. A dream of tangles. A
load of penitential downspouts. So smart
to have been asleep, approaching the eye
invisibly taken for Terror or rude Joy,
dream’s bubble popping around the kids.
We looked past his fitful signal into an
oval gap but didn’t know how to get there.