The increment’s open palm
bordered the visible,
cropped up
in the night’s wale of assembly.

By cables under the ocean
(course of no season,
no circumscription like the hour)

the pre-curtain tuning
notes of radiation—
in miniature,

a linear sketch in the dark
of how our bodies may be experienced later—
will find you as you are,

sunned and mullion-scattered
as a god’s eyes
but at smaller angles of gaze.

Not one may be utterly resumed,
not one lifted as from out of the cumulate sky.