From "Meditation on Summer and Shapelessness"
in Black Zodiac, by Charles Wright:

I never quite got it, what they meant,
but now I do,
Waking each morning at dawn,
Or before, some shapeless, unfingerprintable dread
On me like cold-crossed humidity,
Extinction shouldering, like a season, in from my dreamscape.
Without my glasses, the light around the window shade
Throbs like an aura, so faint
At first, then luminous with its broken promises--
Feckless icon, dark reliquary.
Mortality hunches, like fine furniture, crowding the room.

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