An impermeable layer gardens

the sleuth patch, guarded and sworn

into rescue, or mission. The quaint

untranslatable song

forsaking its mild page, unfaithful as ever.

I’m dressed in clouds and they

are smirking at the edge

of late-age homilies, and the poor star

unable to grant its mania to the end of day.

Some patches of seared light, some

plain domestic blues.

There is a stray sense to the air, wind

announcing the eternal

as through an open window, a sister’s face.

Things being fetched from afar, from the

imprecision

that gathers any single

into any amount; piles of them, unanchored,

blown every which way.