Through which the eye learns how to render
the entire valley. We also need a sample,
somehow, of the bad lighting
our mothers have been photographed in—
their heels clicking in 4/4 time,
which alone has hurled them
back like those reverse Hendrix solos
from Axis Bold As Love
they were never meant for.
Another way of locating what’s been lost
is through a long marooning
with a medal of St. Anthony
and an empty canvas—
to muse out the corpuscles
of old subjects tirelessly
all the rest of our lives.
What we objectify to find again.
The last fact of it is
it will be dark in one hour.
The masculine backdrops of late day
crouch like fired men
on the border of a train yard
and a huge abyss.