Wheel

You can say the broken word but cannot speak for it, can name a precise and particular shade of blue if you can remember its name (Woman of the South, New Lilac, Second Sky?) As the light, close to blinding, fell—falls in bars across a particular page, this then another, some other followed far too closely by night Or as the sleeping pages recall themselves, one by one, in dream-riddled, guarded tones, recall themselves from path to sloped meadow, meadow to burnt shore, shore to poised wave, dismay to present, any present of the bewildered and the buried alive (we’ve been told they were buried alive) Is there a door he hasn’t noticed and beyond it a letter which created the door or claims it created a door which would open either way