We, as then, are pursuing an idea,
Decidedly, however this reaches us:
Fixed in the glow of a small television set,
The back room’s single ornamentation,
An old chair collecting a private history;
The walls are not as absolute while the flicker builds,
Crossed by an image expanding after the frame has left,
A show of lights we have forgotten elsewhere-

Until the divides are as thin as a breath,
With all the bulbs struck out, shrinking
To a latent heat, the circuitry of the clock
Grown numb with waiting, and we remember
Ourselves in an adopted dark, closed tight
As an embryo, noticing our newness lapsing,
Or how minor the break from infancy is,
Turning the lens deeper.