What people said, what left the table dark.
None stayed inside the house, nor close around.
Each direction its direction bound.
Like when you leave the arcing thing to arc.
Like papers gather papers in the park.
We note the wind is what can't hold the ground.
While hearing transfer stations fill with sound.
And let the city alter a remark
a little further from explaining what
was meant. A creak again or just a creak
right then. Like leaning forward on the cart.
A structure falls to stay its every strut.
I'd like to speak. I said I'd like to speak.
And someone sighs, they broke the silent part.
I’m home. I’m not home. I’m on the road or
Off it, briefly. I’ve been out of place. I’ve been
Taking familiar walks. I like the boardwalk. I like
The swamp. I feel ill at ease. I feel fine.
As August ends, I’m thick and cold. As I circle
Above a tide of cypress knees, of webs,
Fallen trunks and leaves, I gather out
The mud a mossy repose. A violent mist.
A green allure. I have spoken into
A dead and standing pool of air, where,
In its center, a spider hangs. I can hear myself
Moving, notes taken on paper, on
My feet, I stop and that makes a sound.
I look out into what feels ancient. It
Doesn’t seem old. My voice is spun.
I’m rolling out myself last rung by rung.
I pinned my eye to the base of a loblolly pine,
And rose, much higher than I would
Suppose. I know everything already. I have to
Ask people questions. All of my relatives
Are famous. There are so many people dead.
Look at these trees. They’re shattered in pieces.
They’re tall and full. I look forward, steadily,
At the moss grown high as the flood.