UT: Richard Fox

See the empty space you’re used to seeing empty—

no reason there shouldn’t be something on it:

a rumor of bells through the right kind of cold

over the right sort of snow from the right amount

of blue (supplier of finery & crow-cry):

arms running out of sleeves like honey—

in praise or in flight—here is your

Monologue for Chair:

I’ll receive your companionable benching

I’ll be your holy star

You’ll be what the sky is for