Sonnet 50, Flying

Flying through time like clouds of horizon,
Overwhelming questions against the sky;
Muttering retreats until the intent was gone,
Seeing Michelangelo like you and I.
The lingering night with a sudden leap,
Evenings at window-pains that come and go;
Tongue on streets that is falling asleep,
Curling up like smoke or an afterglow.
The room is full of corners softening out,
Filling up with shadows draining the light;
Nobody now is going there about,
Half-deserted meanings of what's wrong or right.
Tedious argument that every thought follows,
Dry air of the palpable obscure swallows.