Too Soon

    
  I have no interest in a louder lunch. I have no eyes for anything which lasts         
  A shuttle ride and change, or which quivers then frolics.

  Of course the poem we feel through windows is further into the crevice 
  Of locale, premeditation, garishness, 
  than the scrupulous unease
  Of something formed, like 
  from clay, sodium, meshes 
  Of the things we forgot but would rather have forgotten with letters, 
  scavenger hunts, tremolo persuasions of uncertain start.
  I can’t say I love this, Jim; the worst part is
  nor can rainboots.

  I’ve loved my lunch-- the famous painter and the neuroscientist
  Gathering water, saying just where was that aptest replica
  Of how our friends arrived at sunday,
  Even in the slowness of their various voices? Because things
  Don't vanish at the moment they're understood,
  Even under the couch with parables.

  And-- aha! We found it, in carpeted rooms and the caisson locks,
  And just then there was nothing odd among the gradual,
  Only harbors of pink.

  So goodbye, observatory steps, goodbye
  Sweetest redbud, who I will check again in the evening,
  And then.