The shattered volumes of it: walls of blue
fluming as fast as winds. The sheer corrosive
cleanse of it: how insistently it sleeks

down through the mind.
Not even on the beach
but driving with dune grass at the roadside

these days when home's gone relative (a room and
cellphone . . . passcodes)
all that neural simmer
of wired voices
crying "money money money"
shreds to this bare shimmer of white fire:

"desire without an object of desire."

And the world comes all at once. Me sitting here
pinching your picture
while fireflies and
cars and maple branches spill to the water's
cycle of smash and pull. And still stand still.