It rains. One steps up through the haze

of tan and violet to the maze

of memory–misty where one stands,

twisting, separating strands.
The hour’s dim, and no one calls;

obligation mutely falls

through floors of mountains, origin:

anonymously you begin.
The blasted lantern of the nerves

lights up the sky, where starlight curves;

below, on earth, some few pass by

sheer constructs of identity.
They swirl and plaster every sense,

unto a law of difference:

not clear how long, or what direction,

subsume the nerves in their inspection.
The skeleton’s examination

evokes, incites, brief procreation:

filed away, some future date

astonished memories locate.
The seraphs of pedestrians

seep into violets, into tans,

breaching desire’s boulevards;

throw down the last of evening’s cards.
There is no way to formulate

identity’s raw nervous state:

it seems to slip into the world,

by stellar facts and atoms hurled
into the mythic stratosphere.

Ideas formulate the seer.

Genesis sans génération.

A change of trains at London station.