As if it could be taught. Sedimentation, the ruins
of elegy, light. So lush. No words
but the imagination.
A word at the heart of it, Runcible Valley deep. A lemon
is difficult. This thread
of disappearance, truth and failure. Thirteen blackbirds.
Distraction. We might be
writing, folding laundry, tending
the orphaned moment. Wait: I am
inventing a machine of usable atoms. It is
those feet, in snow.
How I learned to stop worrying,
and. Fill in the blank. A poem
less than portable. I keep these portraits
of material. Say, a silence. Whittled
to a hush.
confuse the wilderness. The wood:
a sentence, divided. Speak to me. A book
I might forever write. I am
alive, I am alive, I am
impossibly alive. I am most likely dead.