Here are these shapes, the sky is folding
of the library pressed into your eyes-


Here we are in tired intrude to come, was resting your head to lights
a glow of the channel murmur
followed in tiles of snow.

For tired acknowledge in passing hail, were the dull lectures of shadows on wall.
To rest your head to the windowsill





still was held-atop your head
of their hallowed shouts

out of the overdone. Through fog of her sonnet lost




Her door slumbered ajar
constable throwing traffic of light

he is the solitary player
screaming at empty theater
to applause of silence;
and he slips from chimera

to become the drunk man
screaming outside my window.