that house-plant shoots have hit the ceiling,
bursts through parapet appertures
pollen fluff seems to float on sullen air,
must be time to take account
thoroughfares pasted with false friends
follow through habituated eyes
between leaf clusters, how the land lies
my expectations, loves, bad feeling.
dusk and long distance concealing
grown like a well-pruned rosebush,
of everyday solitude
nearer than the sound of blood
through one inner ear)
up the sources, run to seed, feeling.
country club and golf course, unappealing
towers return no echo -
even clock digits staining them with rust;
white arrows at corners
round each weekday cannot recall
anyone weathered these surfaces,
which won't weather themselves -
enameled, fired to resist
worn smooth patches, patina, any feeling.