The Lost Colony (audio only)
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As from dark orchard leaves, from quiet scripts where each shape sends its tendril reaching— circle and line, the swaddled bud, the petiole sprung, an envelope tendered. By a window, the infant turns, rooting toward the breast, sun-lit, the mother humming. (Those far things, sources of power and regret, cliffs and waves, continue at a distance.) Here you’ll find a name scrawled in the bark— last words, left to chance and strangers. There, the black ant, burdened by a crumb, and the weight of her lacquered armor, cross
The problem was how to begin with the end
and then it turned out there were two ends:
the end within the continuing
that, continuing, enveloped
the end. You passed yourself
coming and going, went through
one loop, then another,
what was behind drawn
through at a
before you, sprung.
Tangle like a bramble,
like a rose. Start,
start again against
ening. A knife
could give up
on patience, but you
were born among
the dull and
kind, who wait
a homely word:
a plosive, a long cry, a quiet stop, a silent letter
like a storm and the end of a storm,
the kind brewing
at the top of a pine,
(torn hair, bowed spirits, and,
later, straightened shoulders)
who’s who of the stirred and stirred up:
musicians, revolutionaries, pines.
A coniferous tree with needle-shaped leaves.
Suffering or trouble; there’s a pin inside.