Far Farrago

If I learned a tune of a cool grey rock
or a dance of Arbutus
in wooded hollows
then refute me in remembrance nothing-
to have learned is not to have what follows.

What it was is an unrough thing
left of space sketched by charm
minus the nth power-
me nothing refutes than remembrance,
slices of sun to the beaches fall on every hour.

Learning time went witch on my romance-
how might that it never was?
I still perform the figure.
Looking through the tall young forest bends one;
the forest is slight and sheer if you linger.

The day came forth through tomorrows that slew
themselves learning to twirl,
came back as a sheet
of scribbling faded from the flat air to come-
odd vantages recompose in the skin and heat.

A sere correlative mirage remains when dumb
being itself was already only
I, slack-jawed in rocklight-
and the point of it if it had ever one
is still to come from some far farrago at midnight.