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.