Indifferent, as if at last
at rest, knowing that nothing to
be seen will seem remarkable
today, as if the final words
of sight might now at dawn remain
unvoiced, the sun, a fading weight
of memory, would hesitate—
lightly a sea’s gray dreaming plane
touching the balanced undercurve—
before submitting to the chill
routine of day, a lassitude
of numbly watching what will pass . . .

until, to one who hears how still
the still uncertain morning is,
it seems again to move, alone,
as if to write, as if it were
the open and familiar form
of day, as if enjambment were
what motion wants—only to turn
dully away, eroded, worn,
an odd, yellowing sphere return-
ing to its rudimentary stone,
wordless monologist of loss,
of nullity, of winterkill.