Probability: Three Cities, Four Minds, Double Entry




They close the door lock the door so only we enter

Is there more—? The beck
of wind

I came through from snow and looked out the window
I walked past the fish to the orchid and entered his room
where he fitted where he folded

his slow set of plans

I opened his dresser admired his shirts with their broken collars
I admired the walls and he looked at the walls
I walked past the walls and tasted the soup

He forked through the soup and fastened

his eyes on the contradictions
Here are the weak thick pieces of thought we keep taking back

each hour stooped soft to another
and time still insists on a few sentences Suddenly we are talking 

about a baby—how old?— the baby is most days
slow conversation The baby
is beautiful there is so much story and the baby

is continuous We push and pull
and rustle the horizon the
now and then

We laugh and this is enough furniture

What is inside as if making sense as if sorting 

the day from the long up ahead
We name what we miss
Now this is our delicate father