There is a certain mist
Mistaken for memory
A gauze or filter
Which teleports the words
Over fields fields over pools
And pools over an umbilical
Voice which twists at night
And says words we can't
Make out and that we
Must imagine instantly
Like a procession passing
In broad daylight or images
As if they were a moment
Ahead of the things we are
Waiting for an idea of
Our bodies so dispersed.
You have made an angel disappear
Through the most mundane
Means -- so what remains?
A mist, a kind of sheen,
As objects themselevs disappear.
A glass for the worlds we have been.
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