The Origin

of what happened is not in language—

of this much I am certain.

Six degrees south, six east—

and you have it: the bird

with the blue feathers, the brown bird—

same white breasts, same scaly

ankles. The waves between us—

house light and transform motion

into the harboring of sounds in language.

Where there is newsprint

the fact of desire is turned from again—

and again. Just the sense

that what remains might well be held up—

later, as an ending.

Twice I have walked through this life—

once for nothing, once

for facts: fairy-shrimp in the vernal pool—

glassy-winged sharp-shooter

on the failing vines. Count me—

among the animals, their small

committed calls.—

Count me among

the living. My greatest desire—

to exist in a physical world.