.......................So there is
permission, not granted
but given, as a forsythia at the edge of the walk,
having stolen more light
than it can contain, trembles, and the echoes
of argument fade into a fluttering
over the price of butterscotch floats,
and we are dazzled
by the gouge of perception, as if there was in fact a word
we were waiting to hear, not
as completion but as synoptic
and inevitable entitlement—the drift
of some stranger’s conversation,
the memory of a thin mist
moored temporarily over the garden, that face
we saw from the window on the way to St. Albans: beautiful,
indifferent, unequivocably doomed.

--from Fuchsia; Charlie Smith