without root, but still the pressure stemming from it,
the pressure to place: and heard before

as a sound from behind the wall: bit by bit,
it is furtive and small: a bird call

from which the eye draws an airborne calligraphy
into gathering clouds after each habit

of daybreak: written into such distance as this: what then
of its thread, of the never-said, the not yet un-

said, now dispersed as pollen
from the corners of the room? First the darkening

of blue on blue in the window, the view always flawed
by the interminable hesitation before glass

in which the day’s shroud unravels. Then the returning hero
hides his face and spits a pomegranate seed from his teeth

without speaking. As if from amnesia,
the narrative begins again, echoing

in jest: come back, come back.