Gravity forgives the words to plug
sun spots. Rust cups
inside us, touching what
it holds. The same detail reflects
what took place. Now
empty, the impact returns
away. Still obstacles in the sky.
Weather is leaving through
a stone. What could stay. That
these that sing guide
the curve. That thinness where
the sea deepens the light. What
little the sun diminishes. Brief
pauses, the limits in the
way. Stems grown in
elements to count time. Face
down between bones, the faults
receive new forms. Dawn blank
as its drawn, steeping to
a stop, then snowfall. The stairs I’m on.
No openings in the wall. One sits, sees
the sky, a near distance, light traveling
through to reach us. Hold on, the sorrow
you were born with, hums. A lens
that quality, which is a deepening crease.
A patch, a blade, once sighted.
All arrivals instead inside.
I go weak. This world
doesn’t budge. Never simply
an ending, the shifts are unthinkable.
To ready ourselves, flattened
against the stack of it, which for once
seems complete or near sustaining
and ever lengthening. The hours in trees
today, the lines, a collision housing
the crumbling. I’ve seen it, memory
to a point, the going where the gaps
cleave. Birds in unattended
proportions, that miles erode. Time
as much as not. Closed spaces I could
have opened, uncertainty is
a cruel reflection. In the barrier skin
a palest branch bending
into form, drawn as a resistance
forming a figure light rests
upon. What is happening. To grope
the brain. Seeds heaped in words
parallel. Nothing is wide enough.
Our hands parody this blankness
we speak. One day we hope
it will let up.