Disguised Zenith

        “All to do, all over again,
	And if I had it…”  Light fills a corner
	Of the room, not paying attention
	To the racing wind outside,
	                                          the aching white powder.
	Yes, there are Pierrots and Pierrots,
	She resumed, but the wind makes maggots of us all,
	Flies on a wall, and there is no meaning but in suffering
	And where is the suffering in that?
	 
         All the beautiful crafts, the tint choicer
	Than the rest, are available “at all times,” but
	We decode them backwards,
	Their meaning is for our meaning, and where
	Is the meaning in that?
	Like a long teatime, a stroll
	Downward over lawns, always more plumed
	And malicious.  Did I have you
	There, that one time,
	And do I have you lost now,
	More steady, like a jar
	Marveling at its own emptiness, yet you shall taste it,
	A sea breeze one day glimpsed,
	Taken away, but you never knew you had it
	And so notice nothing strange, its absence
	Is perfect, and the room suddenly is lighter.
	It is really light in this fold.  You know why.