Though alone I'm loath to settle
on one summer night.
There's nothing to write to the home
for the unhoused about.
That there are fewer than five thousand
expert witnesses I have no doubt.
In every neighborhood of every
happenstance there's an apotheosis.

Just because you're panoramic
doesn't mean you're a terrain.
It does mean in the stream of consciousness
each obstacle induces turbulence
according to its kind.
The last act of the butterfly is
the bequeathing of a negative estate.

And when one whispers, when
one tiptoes through the patient saints,
ll miracles are verified.
I'm therefore thinking of an umbra
between someone's sunset
and someone's sunrise. The willingness
of the participants is self-selection.

Where there is no vacuum
there is no comparable parade.
The roles of predator and prey are cast in play
then in reality reversed.
Narcissus (Sisyphus by day)
will slowly roll the stone away
and I'll bound down the aisle
but to be born once more.