I put the book down,
Descartes,
And I consider,
Entering
.
Situations of need,
Torn fissures tended by gauzes of wind
And predilections of
Ice within clouds,
.
That I hope the onlooker
Should bear some leniency onto me,
And allow me to form to them,
Conform to them,
And we’ll sing a song in November together,
Having graced, akin.