this winter parabola 07

vii.

no, i haven't quite forgotten. slope of the line tangent to the point, this zenith
time's confection, whipped-up frothy-white perfect now settling, a rush of breath

from the lungs. the moment passing, passing away: the astronomers below
wave back. there'll be a report tomorrow. eh, unsure though. & what? no rain

there, how is one supposed to properly commit the affective fallacy? i find
signs everywhere, detritus telling tales all along the unplanned amble we took

that evening, bargazers AWOL together in favor of stars & opened bottles
of wine hand-in-hand: thinking we read, in scatterplot, a history that has since

given way to filigree & brocade--we root around for the truffles that might yield
if only we knew how to look. reading rightly. these days i'm not so sure.