by Eric Rawson

That the patch of dark sky
Through the grille grieves
The forbearing soul

Does not begin to describe
How quickly things tatter when
They are unattended to,

Tells us nothing new.
The world somehow—
Despiteful—mends itself.

‘That’s just how it is’—
You think—‘The envelope
They call it in business-and-industry,

But more like an horizon over
Which I see myself disappearing,
Swept in the wake of

Practicality, even desperation.’
Or you find yourself relaxed
In a grave of understanding.

The food is better,
Handcarved and luscious
As unsafe sex,

‘But what happens when
To quality management?
Can I buy back my experience?’

Think of windows at night:

A young woman approaches
The fluorescent panes of
The all-night auto-repair;

At the culinary school
A flock of chefs in white hats
Rolls pastry dough and

Gets the salad lecture;
In the high offices lights jump on;
Someone leans his

Forehead against the glass
Hands cupped around
His eyes to see out at—

The authorities? a lover? or beyond.
Whatever brought him there.
It was so much more or less obvious

In the closet of naïve production,
The way that—taking a shot
At it—waves, wildlife,

Distances, pets, feet,
Spouses, clouds, trees, words
Become part of the relentless pursuit.

Midnight: still ‘capable of belief,’
The serial psychology of weather
Curves like a spine

Through the affirmative.
‘What’—you think—‘this must be like
From the outside

Here on the verge of real change’
As the future reaches back
To batter us in particular ways.

‘If I must play the bad guy’—
You think—‘at least
Give me a thorough explanation.’

That the first things
And the last things are like
Massive towers at both ends

Provides some guidance,
As the lights wink out one by one
And the streets grow slippery.

• Welcome to Entasis.