the heat of an approaching story
(they have their own way of trickling
  your hands are hourglasses on the wooden table,
  the sands of whose sea you have shattered immensely
  with a single stroke of    recklessness)

it will be punctuated by the silence taken to the limit
   of a moment’s finite order
  (I dip my hands into the palms of useless glance
    waving heavily against the concrete lip of this dark
   intervening, standing in between as fury on the other side
   of the city is taken to the streets – barricades and men
        bawl into the fullest weight of the world,
     you said you   see all of it.)

and  will reach the lilt of   embrace,
  in all forms plundered of sentiments,
  all of it taken into the  air where

  I    see the final bird of dawn, flying
   and I cannot.