No end to entry it makes through
that fabric thick
With days sequential – leaving you
no longer quick

And balanced here, but spun about
and in no place
At all. No time to cry or shout
or put a face

On emptiness; it will not yield.
The rest – sun high,
White clouds – goes under, too. No field,
no endless sky.

Jared Carter's most recent book, Darkened Rooms of Summer: New and Selected Poems, is from the University of Nebraska Press. He lives in Indiana. Read other articles by Jared.