A Failure

A Failure

You're setting, but not before I see you through
the brume of this filthy window, or conceive you
through the atmosphere's thin omental apron. 
You are a hue of yellow that looked like
fresh sawn pine's deep throb, an aura that,
like water, if stepped into, my feet would never
totally dry again. 

Even if I fly through all the glass on earth I'll still
need to look away, I'll need, I suppose, to pull
at my skirt and smooth every chance.  But then,
if random means coincidence it means what's
pulled through only because it's happening
by...I know something I suppose of turning on
the saw and the sound

of her high wine before she growls into the trunk,
slicing, but I've got it all wrong, because slice
isn't the word, and glass isn't, and none of these
are--just flaw, my long thred dragging out
of the loose hem.  And chance is a current
that pulls it, the way wind is born and raised--
how heat rises

and cold settles, or wants to, they both want
to, and meeting is movement, is my happening by
a window while you are falling into someone
else's sky and I thought how you looked like
fresh split pine, your face, most of its gibbous
light, today, early, early, just above the trees.