On the distraction of the magic lantern

In the midst of space
and banners is a littered waste
that yields more pointing
than parsing--so much has passed
that an account of intervals
(a promise, a perspectiveless
taste) measures meaning (a sacred,
a whole sacred as less whole) and so,
in the midst of lunch and logistics
and yesterday's paper, and more news
buried, and a belatedly unfurnished
reaction to the unblemished
brains of big science
on the back page, there is no
account of the dim wondering
what our position is now.

"Then the sight of you
this morning, in the light, sometimes
the interval ..."