to wake to winter in the coming out of the time of year

when they release

the masterpieces,

but to be still in the other night.

some drown in movies.

some prefer the unfinished

ungovernable recital,

a mystical ecology

where one dies in a camp,

or rolls out with the dice

on the sidewalk among boys with

cardboard shields

and plays dead in white crinoline.
what if paradise was only lifting the veil to flirt.

no one perfect, but perfection inserts

us so, Pascal

thinks a God in his pocket.

what if paradise meant walking

on the ground of our self estrangement,

and the veil of our gaze

an unsteady balm

was not what we saw through

but were, twisting, untwisting—

do you believe. we were never strictly servants.