On Method -- Mary Margaret Sloan

Sine curves flutter as a span collapses, a sight nearly
within reach. From this remote spot, we will, we must, assume there was a close call.
Now listen: off the foaming peaks, sound goes everywhere, even

flying to other aspects of nature - beds, bolts, sleep and sighs - as details
in the system, celestial litter. Textbook beams
of light take the path of least time till hitting a wall.
Every time we look up, a trail of forms
is trying to cross the desert sands. We, finding
our guide, formerly lost but
unmissed, by means of losing track of the coordinates,

got mixed up. The Milky Way is a suspension
or a nebulous solution scattering light, stellar winds
unheard; as its signs of life, or among them,
never distinct from the body, we can never
leave to have a look. No, not really. Our powers are bent
on fixing the machinery, burnt
bearings, frozen works. Weary means thread
the branches; at a prefixed threshold, unheard by some,
acoustics sacrifice appearances, slide the bolt,
a tension span, an

ancient device, at most.