Hot Nostalgia
In boughs that sound as if a wind
Stops to look back and saw nothing
Which any could point towards with clarity. Clarity will pass
Upon hours but by that hour it will pass for a quotidian thing.
For a long hour to play simulacrum upon a bright wall
Is substantial and hardly within sight, apart twixt small
Branch amid branch, trunk amid trunk, as all biology is apart
As you and I, and among all others out in this world.
And a particular thinning-out unit follows
A unit of looking back upon your past. Without warning, drop-
Dropping out without warning is not a pinching or stingy thing,
Only tiring, hot hot hot,
And also constructions without mind
put upon
Our abstractions of activity: hot nostalgia, balls of rich color,
Spinning our gold string for us, with symbolic grins,
Carrying out instructions too scrupulously-
Too far to stop now- and cold nostalgia,
a tip-tap
Of cold stars at my window glass, that swish color and fury
Upon a canvas that is not as big as it looks.
Hot nostalgia pulls down upon as gravity on a stoop,
To a narrow limb upon air and mirror.
Is this it, now,
This cut and dark comfort, and assimilation,
Or did you aim to stop so short? And a bloat, a puff,
Looks upon you, a simulacrum in its mirror.
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