This is the location we tried describing 
but in which we couldn't live, 
a scene beyond real sight, 
never coalescing in our minds. 
Every ordered row 
of photographed faces on a manor’s balcony 
seems misaligned, 
although stars form a thick line, still, 
over their sky clock's numeral. 
I wake hearing lake water 
and feel a beautiful bird standing on one leg 
staring through black eyes 
of friendly focus 
or psychosis 
so vacuous as to encompass 
my whole past; 
gazing long into them eliminates 
gravitational orientation 
and any sense of direction 
so my sky clock again becomes a sacred, scattered constellation. 
The air smells different in spring 
and very few people speak the language in which I dream.