What you're in now is a period of waking
Just long enough to note whether the light's
On or off. And not as a denial of extant
Activity, only that there are uninnominate
Things here, and things that aren't.
Consider what is: lug this around then as
If with you and careful to discard
That guise in the doorway there softening
In grades; it's not what turned on
Or off the light, what you might have
Left there, and, anyways, it obviously
Isn't a question of might or will as much
As description. And really there's no rush, if simply cos it
Doesn't exist. You've probably already
Located yourself there, too, in a suit
Straying in the window across, explaining
You didn't know you still worked here either,
Permitting you laze in the continuity
A time. In every pane of the cut-stone
Oriel window between this street and Cross St
I mean. It's all there, though: oranges, bridges, washer
Dryers, balls of hair and fabrics.
She's standing in the only other
Part of the street, where you can see where
It's sprouted new panes. It's similar to how
Solitary or coupled doves on balconies don't
Correspond to fixed points in space
But shades on a given day
You track. And gladness in seeing them.
We're here now, though it's hard to
Imagine it's the same stone. You manage
Into a night of extensions, or just any
Night where weathers move,
Roll, but do come out, and at that glance
Not inseparable. There was no right day
In June. But as for that other kind
It's a matter of air here flinching
Before clouds have a chance
To gather, loessal hints and cinching of space through
The film, twice the slips by her count.
(Though, and sorely, still all too needed for even
The onset, in spite of the level, worming in
Some way, if not its own. What the misinformed
Might style approach. And the trumpet set down and
Still oozing sound, as if borrowed,
And what results from this line
Of thinking but profuse
Breath? you might know, being
How we're still here, running
Through it again. Their hair was
Indifferent somehow, frivolous, in a fluent sweep
Whenever it less fell than floated
Up to them, resolved in so many spurs,
As it appeared to you, knowing
So little of that implied terminus to
Think of it as such, taken up by
That gesture, yourself too in a funny way
A line partly of your own invention,
Though only partly, and so
Without your knowing, called up as before. But
To get back to your chair. There's that pleasantly
Bad smell he's getting used to, as in any and everything
But foreboding, a sort of nasal tinnitus
And that trumpet. It does often
Shock me. The consultant here out of
Politeness, the tallying itself another
Fallacy. But still these sleights of summer,
The gnomon coerced
From its post, foot-to-foot shade a tree
Pats itself of, it all going by sun-stirs,
To be, finally, one of these days,
Unfinished.) The sky just as
It appeared in the catalogue, fletched
In blue, a skift of loose
Feathers on the sanded-down sunlight
Of the time: an elegant touch
Befitting the subject.
Which is the phenomenon of pre-emptive shadow.
What she hears is it's possible to work
Back from these childish theories
To a vision of the elliptic arms of the crossing
And so to even the acuminate cast
Split so imperfectly between them. A mouthful
That tastes of a mould. Hence
Pre-locating the window.
So that explains it. Enough time
Has just passed. Whoever it was is in
The hallway slipping on shoes.
I have to imagine in that scenario
You'd come into view then, from a distance
Behind yourself, like a comparison
Of the deceptively similar merits of
Simulated rain and simulated snow
For use in this particular scene which
Has kept her up all night and is the true
Reason behind all this. But, she
Feels, there could have been more.
It's a simple tableau: a man at a sink looks out where the dry
And charming fields just were
Before the would-be titular 'unnamed
Force with the character of weather' scooped
The whole thing up. Plastic
Cups in a range of colours, noodles, tinfoil, packaged croissants,
All crucial for the new sense past them
Where landscape just
Wouldn't suffice. With waiting
They appear to take on that quality,
But moreso reveal shyly they always had,
Which is the instant you know
You had it too. A polite wind comes in
After them. It was watching pigeons queued
Up at the de-icing truck she realised
The redundancy of the word 'spacious'.
The grass at that hour
Frail and muzzy, an air full of babies' breath
And windows up trawling the sky
For cirrus. In other words, it wants you
Long enough to lose the haughty sense
Your waiting should transform it. Though not
In a mean way, is what she can't seem
To stress to people. There's just too much
To consider. Nothing happens then. The louver in the shade in the square with
The blush of this evening already
Written into it. And that light
Showers blear the wind draped over you
Is all I can manage, another guess. She goes on with her open fridges
And sawn, dusty sea, minor tweaks to the rain, until
A soft voice at her shoulder says,
'I've been here fifteen minutes.' The course of feathers
Across the window
Plunges into turbulence. And your dream of a sort
Of inescapably torn and aloof leaf-mechanism
To populate this acre of unclaimed sky
Eventually breaks up
Or moves away.