By night a laddered diagram

seen from the windows of this

bedroom town-rayflowcrs of dread

ascending and descending-

identifies the cooling tower,

insomniac vision

revealed by day as a grayed

obese archangel, its twiddled

dirk of ash and rhinestone

a metronomic rerun of some

half obliterated last

nightmare of Eden

in the West: O Abendland, O

astral monochrome, steam-plume

whose throttled howl deploys

above the cooling tower

a pillared, effortless

volume of milkweed.

The air is windless. Harmless

outside the moat and continent of

power, the tabernacled rods’

implosive marrow, an aureole

of bright particulars let fall

falls unregarded,

such an excess as to be all but

sorrowless: the sumac’s roadside

flares, used-car lots bannered as

for a gala, street maples’ tattered

circus-tent extravaganza

sifting unnumbered

relics, emblems of the everywhere

expendable: O Abendland, astral

insomniac, prophetic hulk of the

unuttered: by whom, should your

hot hour arrive, will all the dreams

of Adam be remembered?