after Robert Delaunay
Stars oppose their circuits
to the pale rain and wither,
brittle cores shelled by sudden headlights,
the lamps in a city not yet defined
by the hour of the day, or night.
Elusive with street sounds
at dawn or dusk, elusive
in the claustrophobic brightness
of mid-afternoon.
Reduced to the rigor of disorder,
simplicity that is not corseted in
intellect’s machine but !jumps!
out of the big room and vanishes
round the brute corner of the net-
like street, staining the air with a shout,
half-joy, half-hatred.
Here is the city.
I am in it.
And when I look out the window
I will tell myself what I see.