The place of language is the place between me and the world of presences I have lost —complex country, not flat. Its elements free- float, coherent for luck to come across; its lines curve as in a mental orrery implicit with stars in active orbit, only their slowness or swiftness lost to sense. The will dissolves here. It becomes the infinite air of imagination that stirs immense among losses and leaves me less desolate. Breathing it I spot a sentence or a name, a rescuer, charted for recovery, to speak against the daily sinking flame & the shrinking waters of the mortal sea.
Excerpted from Easy by Marie Ponsot. Copyright © 2009 by Marie Ponsot. Excerpted by permission of Knopf, a division of Random House, Inc. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced without permission in writing from the publisher.