Looking at this painting backwards,
the poet begins
to see how not
to end, how the center holds
only recycled reflections of a soul. More 

will be revealed, still
a nuisance theme, runs
rampant in reds and golds inside
closed lids. And then there’s that
damn song and the guy who sings it—how 

it wrote him inside
out.  Was it? It was
this torched. Turn it
over with eyes at rest
Meaning can’t be met 

at the station. It floats over tracks
and erases bridges made derelict overnight.