Blue sustenance
fills the space before time,
imagining Telemachus at the window,
himself imagining me.
The solitary world glows with the cold dreamlight
streaming into yesteryear’s ideas and buildings,
peopled with prismatic self-projections,
politely swaying train-heads in constantly negotiated dissensus.
If this were really a dream,
it would have been enough.
I cannot say that this tangled ball of thread belongs to me.
Every Monument a Marble Janus 