Blizzards, thaw, blizzards,
yet all this even-handedness about us,
possibly delusion,
shy of absolutes. Cleft vision.

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Anicius Boethius wrote De consolatione
in prison, charged with conspiracy.
It’s thought that he was executed not long after,
in Pavia, place of his exile,
circa 524 CE.

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Always the hope at the last
or else call it knowledge, 
that through imperfection
the saving power arrives.

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Somehow the difference
between imagining things
and actually seeing them,
compared to the gulf 
that separates the living and the dead

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After a hurried food court lunch
  I loiter at the newsstand,
one of several office workers
  who crowd this ledge of day 

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It escapes us, the question
concerning technology,
Aladdin’s problem, who couldn’t
get the genie back
down in the lamp. Titanic.

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