Arcades brick dust a rose lamp burns in the upstairs window
everything I will say I have said already         still again the
arcades the dust the light to be built by the bottle the box
I will say saucer         I have said everything         I will say

The accumulation of transparent planes brims with ashes in
a cup reducible to rain running from the awnings of arcades         a
girl carrying a pitcher of water through half-dark dust stirred
by the bulk of her skirt suspends         I can still reach toward
that past         saying "snarl of sun" I opened and closed the door
of a telephone booth watching the coil redden and dim         I saw
your street in a photograph a tangle of black thread crossed

Your tongue is a letter         I have not written in days         it took
all day to load the trees with silence the street with quartz
the lamp carves a semicircle from the wall         distance again
cleaves (the mirror, etc) light again from dark between which
the dust settles uniformly         I have been talking to you now
for two days at a time         I will try not to think about
swallowing my tongue