There is a particular word,
lueur, for the slightly sinister
gleam at the near end of all things.
The morning that never comes.
The widow’s walk that is never
an accident. The thirteenth hour
under fluorescents in a labyrinth
of glass. The slow wringing of time
into calendars of doleful suns.
A lueur is the hope and sign
of the catheter or the cataract,
the barn half-collapsed, hinged
precariously over a picked-over
yard, the “so what” after a long
explanation on why it could not be