Things traced by what they trace: the flashlight,

not the 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.