Light enters the retina by way of the surge
Of heavy morning traffic down Upper Market
The province, the region, the sect
The zone of last clouds in which is spotted the Final Face
Trickle in culverts beyond
— “This call ends now” —
A bird suffocates before you know it
Eurasia of the Abstract, Russian poetry edgy
And green like a chambray work shirtThe Cloud of Knowing
Snippets in a mineshaft, so dispersed, hurtful
Peri hupsus, the poetry of hype?
“From then on, I knew I could sell people anything,”
the artist lately known as Jeff Koons beamed,
his juvenilia a success parading baked goods door to door.
And for those who can’t or won’t – it hadn’t occurred to them,
nor had “anything” ever come their way.