lxxvii.

the heat hazes, the dust on the windshield,
the figures blur, sometimes--

the figuration of lights, at no interval
heuristic unto the moment,

the cars flock, they flow, they brake,
at the line--the light burns

sense, from the pattern--these things
hold sense:

the flat of the sole on the ground
the shadow, aslant, step and stride
the fingers, clutch and fall,
the eyes to blur and clear

these things do not hold sense:
the glow upon the grass, the
stars rise, the lights hang, and fall
across the glass--these things do not
hold sense:

the cricket's beat, the sun's blaze cut
the whispering in the weeds, the morning's
pale blue light, the night's indigo glory

these things do not hold sense:
the murmured conversation, the broken
syllables, the reeds which catch them, ditches
damp, in the evening, the moment in the lee of
the light, under the eaves, the clouds of smoke--
the words fall, they fail, these things hold sense:

the burn in your calves, the fingers aching,
clenching--these things hold sense: the lingering
sense of direction, the fading guidepost of
memory, the aching shape of what is
missing--these things hold no sense:

sleep: the quite, unbroken silence, of the dark--the
strange anticipation (crickets blare) of early dawn,
the wheel-wells rumble, up a familiar cliff, the mountain
dry and gleaming, the raven's call, the gloaming
rising tide of hope, the benches worn, sea-beaten grain,
the easy availability of vision, over the walls, toward the
sea, the comfortable space, reserved and waiting, so easy
to slip into--these things hold no sense,

the sense of waiting, of being waited on, but these things
hold sense: the glimmer, and the haze that rose from these
things, and the sense of waiting, the desperate, burning
searching--we will burn ourselves to remember the night