This  Morning While Driving Home 
(with Milk and a Loaf of Italian Bread)

From the radio, a choral motet
composed with eight
choirs of five voices each,
Spem in alium, 

amongst multitudinal
directions of air alighting
down as flakes of quiet
snow subsumed.

And had it been evening--

when fathomless dark
depths can augment
spilt emotion, merge
with a tired day’s phantom
shadows- 

I know I would
have kept driving
on through those aural
ranges of reflection, 

amidst that devouring love
for purblind memories
of hope in any other…..  

But maybe as it was day,
and perhaps from being
struck from the white-blind
of winter’s iced lightning,

in the first sense
with cold miosis
for the new week,

the matter felt was for home,
to sit at the kitchen table
in a presence for a view-- 

as of lofty ascension seeking
clarity within a bright
clarion emptiness, saved in
a back turned radiance.