so unsure of their season.
If the conditions
had a melody,
they would be half-aware, humming it over and over:
minor key, then major, then minor.
The world, then, is only a world inside
its own weather,
fleck, the tune
worn or melted, eroded into a key
that rhymes indeterminately.
If melody had
a memory, would
it be white
and so inclusive, discordant, oblivious of
and therefore a verse to itself:
white carefully rhymes with conditions
the uneven simile of relation
What is meant to be broken in half
so it may replicate itself—shy and off-key
undoes itself by falling to
what it hoped was a prior circumstance,