French panes where you waken—the room smaller,
the town foreign. The morning sun prismed,
cutting through one house to wing another.
The train whistle urgent, its butterflied
cars snaking as if through tunnels inside
other tunnels. The giftee can never
thank the giftor. Protagonist outside—
on leaving his prison-castle—blinks, dazed
by the escape route through green-blue waters.
You dream of counter-espionage, schisms.
Is it autumn come back to recommend
travel abroad, to dictate another
kind of aging, future’s doppelganger?
Double glass holds full moons: faint, feint, fainter.