If it was treason it so well handled that it
Became unimaginable. No, it was ambrosia
In the alley under the stars and not this undiagnosable
Turning, a shadow in the plant of all things

That makes us aware of certain moments,
That the end is not far off since it will occur
In the present and this is the present.
No, it was something not very subtle then and yet again

You’ve got to remember that we don’t see that much.
We see a portion of eaves dripping in the pastel book
And are aware that everything doesn’t count equally—
There is dreaminess and infection in the sum

And since this too is of our everydays
It matters only to the one you are next to
This time, giving you a ride to the station.
It foretells itself, not the hiccup you both notice.

John Ashbery, “The Absence of a Noble Presence”, in Shadow Train