lxxvi.

in one march, a long time ago
the table was long,

and the breeze whispered through
a crack in the window

I sweat, and I saw through the long
hallway, a hand

over the ocean, long and nimble
so--the fate and failure of reach

long and nimble, and all the halls
were windows, and the windows
were halls, and I wept

for every light in the sky, and its
mad flung capacity,

ranging, but we choke, we fall
along the border, still--

the heat, lay across the table like
a person, in the bottom of the cup

the leaves say this:

one moment of wrongness is enough
to bring the mountain to the sea, but not enough
to bring hand to hand,

it will burn, the fall


---

not enough to bring life to the day, nor the days
thereafter, only in these

similar moments of madness, enough to bring
the hand to the mind, never mind it, but enough
to bring the hand to the mind, regardless--

no account that, nevertheless, enough, but only
in these similar moments of madness

not enough, but when madness falls to
subjunctive madness--then