one day we exit the building
wearing skin, and another time
wearing names, and once in silence.
these days are parenthetical
like lighthouses and vary with age.
our faces stick together.
another hour we leave doors open
for strange fauna, preferably geese
and are plastered with small finches.
we want oceans to stand vacant for us,
to welcome our bodies, a shell over us,
and we watch reflections warped by glass.
the glazed areas of a room. we want
to be learned under an office lamp but
no moments for this. once by moonlight
we tell stories with no meaning, look
to God. look for parabolic curves.
we ask why separate seas.
suddenly autumn: nothing has gathered speed.
we can’t convey. the sun. which means
don’t hold doors. don’t whole anything.