Inscription

Things traced by what they trace: the flashlight,



not the slingshot...as though to orbit was the point.



 



As though going round and round reiterating



were a form of argument; the way a globe is spun;



 



the way, cleaving the air, the boomerang must zip



whatever it unzipped, the carousel horse gallop



 



idiotically to its tune, its smile painted on.



As though a beat was an adventure. The insufficient margin.



 



The margin in all things makes them too valuable to be



any value at all, the inscription To Chester, from Wystan



 



that surplus in the chastity, To Chester; a line



ruining, by embodying it, its potential power;



 



remembered looking forward, as though not one minute more



on the planet won’t be, and it won’t be, the undoing



 



of everything I did, the boomerang returning, its limit shot,



From Wystan, its limit never met, the horizon near



 



my body worn as a light sweater, something thrown on



on a cold night, getting colder, near the end of summer.