On the pitched rooftop, that one can give
No more mind to the things in the house.
Below in the dim room, that one can see
Out there, beyond wall, bones and the glow
Of eyelid and handflesh. The one telling
The smoke sees the involved face there
But cannot tell the others, and the one
Off the coast watches the body of water
That bears him flash into horizonless sky.
The one in the bed feels for the other,
The one in the mill is alone with the wheels,
And in the field, one figure just keeps going.