The Mind Sliding
around inside the scene:
little grassy bowl, a line of silver maples
the wind whips to flip the leaves’ undersides
outward all at once, like pulling a windowblind.
Bass of a car thumping along the road,
blankets here and there, people
with their books and wine—the mind
rubs against them all—and the edifice
of the great museum, which the mind
climbs to trace the curves of its lettering.
The mind inside its mood—membrane
sheathing the scene in magnanimity
on this thinnest of afternoons: nothing to do
but follow the mind as it slides around,
whatever-the-self-is tracing behind—
while the body glows: a gaslight’s net
hanging inside the mind.
