If it was treason it was so well handled that it Became unimaginable. No, it was ambrosia In the alley under the stars and not this undiagnosable Turning, a shadow in the plant of all things
That makes us aware of certain moments, That the end is not far off since it will occur In the present and this is the present. No it was something not very subtle then and yet again
You've got to remember we don't see that much. We see a portion of eaves dripping in the pastel book And are aware that everything doesn't count equally - There is a dreaminess and infection in the sum
And since this too is of our everydays It matters only to the one you are next to This time, giving you a ride to the station. It foretells itself, not the hiccup you both notice.
'The Absence of a Noble Presence', John Ashbery 1988