UNTITLED (IN THEIR UNREAL GOTHIC CLIMB)

in their unreal Gothic climb,

back hairs on the glacial spine

lit by deathly lights that spill

not sun, but gauze and chill,

set off by a wormhole sky

too imaginary to identify,

faded and uncertain, the ruin

of an unattainable high curtain

whose private scalloped layers

are seen alone by frenzied airs

and rays, too overcast,

too air-brushed, vast

and monstrous to coalesce

with any human screen, but nonetheless

a feature of wreathing light,

made real by every unreal sight.