Asleep by the obsolete atlas,
now you can imagine in what hour you are tempted, how far pleases
you best has shifted. Spiral-scalped apples, a barbed
wire of cloud, a gate
uplocked at dawn. What things can you take
for welcome? A shade. A bell rushed close to the eyes
is a portraiture of noise, is a window paying gaze is between you
blood. You scarcely know what takes you in. The air
is charged with versions.
“Prodigal Song” is reprinted from Weather Eye Open (University of California Press, 2006).