We thought it could all be found in The Book of Poor Text，

    the shadow the boat casts， angled mast， fretted¹ wake， indigo² eye.

    Windows of the blind text，

    keening， parabolic nights.

    And the rolling sun， sun tumbling

    into then under， company of moths³.

    Can you hear what I'm thinking， from there， even as you sleep？

    Streets of the Poor Text， where a child's gaze falls

    on the corpse  of a horse beside a cart，

    whimpering dog， woman's mute mouth agape

    as if to say， We must move on，

    we must not stop， we must not watch.

    For after all， do the dead watch us？

    To memorize precisely⁴ the tint⁵ of a plum，

    curve of a body at rest （sun again），

    the words to each popular song，

    surely that would be enough.

    For are you not familiar with these crows by the shore？

    Did you not call them sea crows once？

    Did we not discuss the meaning of "as the crow flies"

    one day in that square - station of exile - under the reddest

    of suns？ And then， almost as one， we said， It's time.

    And a plate shattered， a spoon fell to the floor，

    towels in a heap by the door.

    Drifts of cloud over

    steeples from the west.

    Faith in the Poor Text.

    Outline of stuff left behind.