to wake to winter in the coming out of the time of year
when they release
the masterpieces,
but to be still in the other night.
some drown in movies.
some prefer the unfinished
ungovernable recital,
a mystical ecology
where one dies in a camp,
or rolls out with the dice
on the sidewalk among boys with
cardboard shields
and plays dead in white crinoline.
what if paradise was only lifting the veil to flirt.
no one perfect, but perfection inserts
us so, Pascal
thinks a God in his pocket.
what if paradise meant walking
on the ground of our self estrangement,
and the veil of our gaze
an unsteady balm
was not what we saw through
but were, twisting, untwisting —
do you believe. we were never strictly servants.