It’s nothing. A blue wheel blurring, and a wind
catchless, clicking at a window’s high
startless framing—a fixed, transparent eye

1.

How do they get so close to the window,
a tree in figment, arithmetic moon?
Summer broke you, winter builds you—

Old wolf, I said,
leave a tatter
for my family:

The moon isn’t looking for solutions.
She’s grown accustomed
to partialities,