The Poetic Stance

wonder if it’s in the hips
or the hair/stair/glare of the last minute
now discarded along with—

wonder that

when construction vehicles are backing up
as though—but no/you can always still see
the original lines vectoring down the fresh-paved road
like Gordian dreams

and into that and that and into the one standing
on the sidelines waving/mendicant of explanations
for this passworded world—

it’s there/in the back yard
where the leaves have been raked
into a sifting pile—it’s there
that we see such faces/hear
such voices/and walk such alleyways
as may populate the imaginary life line
a spider spins from eyes that were never created
to see time as more than just this moment