It’s nothing. A blue wheel blurring, and a wind
catchless, clicking at a window’s high
startless framing—a fixed, transparent eye
that knows no solitude, and cannot spend

its stare on other spaces, never tend
those trees, that crooked keystone, this cold sky,
the cemetery with its stones and shy
flowers browning—a gaze without an end,

a silent keeper to the nothing news
stroking the surfaces of dreamless deeps.
And who can blame a blank that doesn’t choose

or say the boundaries bound, the keeper keeps,
the law of glass is porous, the day we lose
greets the eye that blinds it. The other sleeps.