by Alfred Corn

    The first will no doubt begin with morning's

    Stainless-steel manners and possibilities

    Out of number. Sunlight scold too much？

    So a tense gets thinned out with solvents¹，

    Preternaturally bright with the will

    To swap² laziness or pleasure for paper money.

    The future may appear as a winter day， colors

    Of the facades³ like frozen jellies and sherbets，

    Palaces of frost in crystalline order；

    Then fall into shards⁴ at the approach of fact，

    A needle of starlight aimed at your heart.

    This one has all the force and danger of

    Randomness⁵： image drips into daydream⁶

    As waters gather to sea level and go

    With the tide. Clouds. Chain lightning.

    The waves move in like destroyers. And-

    And only subside⁷ when， for example，

    I stop to prove a cup off-center

    In its saucer. A door closes， footsteps；

    The night outside warm and silent

    As an underground parking lot； askew⁸ stacks

    Of books and papers； raw material；

    Clues to a life. Because it's the time

    Of pain-always the same-and pleasures：

    Taste， touch， work， walking， music-not one

    Of these trivial and all incomplete.

    The last was always a famous storehouse；

    Or you sit down before an amphittheater

    Of tiered keyboards， repertory of stops；

    To choose diapason. bourdon， vox humana-

    A stone wall， the shadow of a leaf，

    The gate I saw and then the grass

    Running in place before the wind.

    The place of the mind moved on， just

    Failing to be everywhere at once；

    And reconstructed an autumn afternoon

    From the highest window， when the buildings

    Forcing up against an imposed sky，

    Fused into background， embraced the park，

    Rested. The last baseball players

    Swarmed⁹ around a tiny diamond template；

    Man and his games a perfected miniature-

    Like the past you almost don't believe in.

    Yet it's there， behind perhaps a blue veil；

    Sturdy； calm； unless put out of countenance¹⁰

    By drab standards of exactitude.

    The last word was never， was always

    About to be written； so that none of us

    Could know whether hope， become action，

    Exposed to the elements-a bronze monument，

    Negligible among the surrounding towers，

    But somehow truly central-would corrode，

    Crumble， dissolve； or weather into

    A fact of nature， continue to be

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