It must be
Some sort
Just of hope
Irrational & huge
That pours the
Words down the page
Not actually only
In metaphor gravity
Or some sort of attention
But the page is
Spreading out as
The one monomeric edge.
The words, then, must
Through the dark lines
Allow an impossible light
From some absolute and
Arbitrary other
To flood across
Like song or a distant television
Through a night-time window: it
Goes on. It
Surely will.