THE NAMELESS OUTSIDE
As though a tube of colossal sunlight the day wraps itself
around a circumference of orangeness, of jittery drilling.
The men are busy repairing they say. Repairing the space that was.
That moment a dove landed on the rail with a wet mauve wing and an eye.
Then she flew off.
This morning, while it still rained, a small machine flew from my hand
as a boat determined to sail on.
When I got to the boat it were a splintered raft,
a radius of color that hid the questions beneath.
The numbers to dial.
Invert it said. I did and a cloudy day foreshadowing autumn
glowed like a troubled photograph. The one taken after the one you meant.
The one in which your own eye is a white bead in a gray sky.
Well hello today. Hello 2:02 p.m. Here at the number I was deposited at.
The wind is inconstant on its way to somewhere.
A wave that wraps around the world in fits. That sighs and sinks.
I hear chimes between the crash.
An invisible surface that will come to be seen and insist on it.
I’ll slip in to the mask of the hour
and find those bells. That lead me on through cobbled passageways.
How you notice a smashed red flower, just may have been a mum, on the sidewalk
as an utterance. A name.
Or the name is everything else
and its radiant amber spikes the nameless outside