Sunday, not in Egypt
I would have stayed at home as lights went dancing in a distant
body, a thinking thing, a tall weak hot-house
pulse, I mean, kindly, plated in gold and understandably
architect of some negativity; the day, dull
and silent as dullness even the grey
uneventful power ; the mountain ocean, speed of snow.
The man hung there like an obsolete puppet.
Not my words but curved reputedly
and raggy as a tempest
through which the planned arcades will rise.
Shut the door, sweet one. Open the book.