All my life is lived through windows;
today the glass has sprouted gazing-globes of rain
and, to watch the world, I run my vision through them both.
Bent, reflect-refracted and changed, two streetlamps, double-headed,
rest their glowing faces in the cloudy sun,
one and one and one and one,
a pair of snoring sentinels on either side
of a flagpost without a flag.
Away from this, behind a swollen fence of rain, a satellite dish,
too large, too inefficient, too there
to have been born in the last ten years,
is missing several of its wire wings stretched out like webbing
on the space between the sixteen radii reaching away
from the central arm, still calling,
still moaning in echoes for stars.
I do not know what is its metaphor;
but it is broken
and it is beautiful,
and I find that it is worth so much
in bravely being worth so little.
* * *
God, is the rain or is the glass a window?
God, when did Eden draw so near?
God, were we all sleeping?
Were we sleeping?