The Brooklyn Rail

Along a plane I wanted to write it:
Where one end is fixed, a loose sun

To the excess of dark I was certain
That certainty’s a kind of excess

A term that’s but a navigating bust
A place to version a limit, feet in foot

When the lute’s sum turns daily
As if by steam one could coordinate

The tulips, too numerous to pinch
By steam the autography of material

Will appear to light the vapor region
So we can know it as if by touch

A nude thing, the masses say
As they re-substantiate again