Things

Things

The book behind the other books
deep in the shelf
days and nights cover
with quiet dust. The anchor
of Sidon English waters
oppress in a bland blind abyss.
The mirror repeating no-one
in an empty house.
Fingernails we leave
end to end in time and space.
Shakespeare's inscrutable dust.
Modifications of a cloud.
The momentary symmetrical rose
once given by hazard to the hidden
kiddie kaleidoscope crystals.
Argo's oars, first boat.
Footprints waves
dreamy and fatal erase on the beach.
Turner's colors when the straight
gallery's lights are off
and late night hears no steps.
The other side of the world map.
The spindly spiderweb in a pyramid.
Blind stone and curious hands.
The dream I had before dawn
and forgot by sunup.
The beginning and end of
the Finnsburh epic, scanned verses
of iron today, unspoiled by time.
The blotting paper's inverse letter.
The turtle in the well.
What cannot be. The other horn
of the unicorn. The Being Three and One.
The triangular disk. The ungraspable
moment when the Eleatic dart,
immobile in air, hits the target.
The flower in Becquer's pages.
The pendulum time has detained.
The steel Odin stuck in a tree.
The text with uncut leaves.
The echoing hoofbeats of the charge
of Junín, in some eternal mode
unceasing and part of the weave.
Sarmiento's shadow on sidewalks.
The voice the shepherd heard on the mountain.
The skeleton bleaching white in the desert.
The bullet that killed Francisco Borges.
The tapestry's reverse. Things
no-one sees, save Berkeley's God.