I had been thinking of a boy’s eyebrow. In somebody’s living room, a fire
but I had not yet decided whether I would present myself as a weightless scarf
or as a trailer set permanently off its wheels
Either way his eyebrow: this sweet curve of the questionIs scanned quite easily with
my finger, inexorable stroke, flames drawing upward,
toward the geese who efficiently re-gather their fundamental geometry
They seek an attentive reader with the tight scruples of devotion
And so I began to consider history
