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.