something perfect
in a circle makes it hard
to leave
something perfect
in a circle makes it hard
to leave
now that all trees
are leafless—he can’t know which
won’t return
in an oblique ray
of weak winter light, you turn
just so
were the sea wine-
dark or dusk purpled, we might
never cease weeping
today’s art—
the other hand painting
in a blizzard
like the moon—without
a regular color, shape
or face
as if all the dawn
and dusk skies were themselves
litmus