My shade has holes through which the day

Reflects, its white light filtered from the grey


December sky through dots like nacred buttons

On the panoramic gamut of a clouded sun,


The shirt front of a laundered view

As steamed and pressed as high tech drops of dew.


My eyes, unfocused, draw up patterns of fatigue

To make an astigmatic lattice of the window beads,


A trellis where the morning's line of sight

Is broken into muntins by the frame of night,


The great divide, the season's seam

Shrunk to pixels on a louvered screen,


The planet's bones, the light's debris

Sewn like diamonds in a summer sea


Eyelets on the brush strokes of the year,

Sight imprisoned in a lavaliere;


But no need to dream up reasons

For these monsters out of season's


Sleep, these colorless inversions of a scene

Where washing flutters on the village green


And ocean smashes on the gutter :

In between the crosshairs of the shutter


And the light, sandwiched in the shadow

Of these reticules of snow,


Bright as any lightning

On the curtain's black and white,


Is the one translucent, limpid clue

Of life: a liquid, coral speck of blue.