there is no quiet time
no unbroken sky or mirror
that gives ourselves back whole.
we cannot force the fragments
into the pattern we have
chosen for our lives,
which enlarge despite us,
stubborn resistance is taken
for movement towards or for
some unnamed goal,
or broken by sleepless reflection
becomes yet another reason
to conceal, the image before us
always of ourselves.
while the small silence,
the detail is a window
opening onto desire
where larger goals draw away
and the touch of a familiar hand
at the side of conscience is afterthought,
epilogue to a story mean to amuse.
but let it wait for now, be poignant,
preserve a detail. some trick
of memory to beguile clear eyes.