isn’t that the only explanation possible
for all the times someone wept, thereby
setting off a cascade of weeping? We rowed
from room to room, each in our own
teetering gondola, burnished
but breakable as glass. This is the way
the self becomes tired of weaving
bridge after bridge of sighs.
It wants to climb onto a dock
and slip into a crowd of revelers—
they’ll bear her away, dizzy
and uncertain, stumbling
into the plaza’s yellow light;
and all those wings,
In response to Via Negativa: Pear tree house.