off limits to the wind

the poet returns to la place
de la primavera. nothing --
her mark can't stamp. she visits
graveyards to warm herself
on names of cold stars.

they tell her x rays escape
from black holes. then it's not
a closed system after all.
looking out she looks into
the seeds of the void.


by this, what isn't
also is.

repository of time.


summer begs birth in these clouds
guided by the globe's
slew, spinning, spinning...