the little lamps, the ones that
though they don't do much work
still need to be on
and look out past
the church tower, past
all the thrumming of
the porch, the paths,
look beyond the two tall
trees to the right
and find the invisible line
that separates
sea from sky, or
doesn't
at this time of day
listen to the French horn,
the gull, the shiver of
the branch by the window,
the Canadians
come to know the way the
palest blue, on the edge
of the farthest everything
rings true, goes beautifully
into the center,
so that
when you feel it come, that joy,
to rest within
your stomach,
you're almost
sick to it
