from THE EIGHTS
A woman will call from Paris;
I won't know who she is
Or is she'll fall in love.
Even the phone could vanish
And destroy the world.
From a bridge, a hand reaches out
And sweeps the letters away.
It's easy: the eights.
From here I could make it matter.
From here the only light by which I read is reflected.
To say I am in the mirror
Saying Sunday is another way of becoming smaller,
Folding: a given:
My eighth, my double, my shriven and malcontent:
The wolves have returned to circling the city,
The unnamed bells ring incessantly:
At hand, the earth, my friends, was never flat.