Some poets were speaking
but no one was listening.

There were gray doves—or
just one on a black branch,

and then a mournful sound,
a couple of ghosts, snow,

a red flag, pinch of light,
tiny murders, something

about the moon's eyelid
fluttering, the memory

of a sister. Kisses, twilights,
a sour lemon, sparks from a fire,

blood and a bull, crooked circles,
cobalt blue that just got

bluer, time erased,
a faceless clock, and then

one poet was begging
for forgiveness, which was about

the time we all got up
to stumble out into

what the other poet called
the blind universe.