Code

In this opal well of light and shade
from which December afternoon is made –
in its grand volume and complexity –
its dance of dust in angled sun from which
I must avert my glance – before its solar
cataract combusts and overruns my eye –
in this incursion of the sky into the room –

this incarnation yet again of some felt bloom –
some sense of sometime – when? –
faint grasp of past, beyond my own –
in this attenuated flow and tone –
this proof of time’s illusion – this rhymed
allusion to a dimly recollected home –
not this one, no, and not in London, no –

but fluidly partaking of the source
of each, as if an ocean of some distant
century had now begun to lap its gentle
waves upon a beach – to draw Baroque
striated swerves and geometric curves
in sand with broken bits of shell –
some code informs me all is deeply well.

.