A Concordance of.

these phrases, and language,
keep some part of me. Why  
do they meander and overflow,  
 
through odd nonrhythms I can-  
not find the sense, nor a capacity,  
within myself for their control?
 
A word is an object, vanishing  
while it traces cross the surface,  
holding reserves of definition;  
 
it stands clear before me, like  
a stenciled, morning shadow  
plays, at being the minutehand  
 
throughout my day. The veiled, 
and embraced, memories of  
tense: such as was, and will be.