The gizmos work, but badly.
Through the stammer of my eyesight
I see a pastiche of the passing scene,
A world of gauze and gossamer,
Clouds of blurring.
What remains is the full stop, the period,
Pulled into focus, if necessary,
With a magnifying glass.
With the right lenses,
Corporate is possible,
A man at a computer screen,
What is lost
Is the oceans of light,
The blue infinite
Of the sharp-remembered sky,
The bright precisions of a world
That I do not imagine now
That I will ever see again.
Looming, now, in my imagination,
Are the dungeons of the absolute,
Tubes choked with cannon balls,
Ebony enforced by oubliette.
In the world of launched changes,
There are no impossibles,
More rigid than a shadow.
Is a matter for weeping.