Impression II
(variations on the verge)
Outside the neon verge of history
all lives virga on the wind as icons.
Once we learned only of kings.
Now we learn only of types:
of parts of us we dare feel or deny
never touching soil,
never being soiled,
never being soil on the verge
of the road from the past.
We measure out by branching class.
And birch, to purge something
without sunlight or edge.
Rimless as the swinging rod
falling to make stripes.
Thus by the mark
shall we know their type,
and no gentle rain
shall ever bring them blood
to boil, or run cold, with the fickleness
of real people.
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