Now let us answer escaping time, lovely fragments, smooth magpies of embodied uncertainty. You are not the one curled back beyond words, though you might wish to be. A piecemeal suspended nation on the borders of the long journey back to you.

It stops for no one and hauls a truckful of sadness. I hope you can live enough to unload it. Or maybe you could drive it over the cliff and just wait and wait, not knowing for what.


One at a time you test extremities. Your body tingles. You no longer confuse your feelings with the weather. It’s a slow process, your condition refusing to be seen as a telephone ringing after the ambulance has gone.

When you answered the moon, your eyes revealed nothing, the doubt fallen back deeper than muscle and skin, enough a part of you to read smoke and follow. It’s calling unborn children from the dreams. It’s tapping at your throat like a bone.


You were dragging yourself along due to the expenditure of attention to other matters. And now other matters have attended to you. It’s a bad story about you that might be true if you don’t know who you are. It’s not your mind that keeps you wishful, but your wishes that keep you mindful.


Why don’t you ask your shoes if they want to take you home?


You reach out further and it’s not quite you arriving because it’s not quite not you.  Your project dissembles, love left unknowing in the underbush. The woolen disturbance of the last regime’s shearing  An apricot caravan treeless in the wind- waves.

Padded winds accost the branches blackened by the visitations of fall fungus and the neighbor’s elderly mother, who burns and burns the still air with her history. Sunlight is not vertical, it leans. The hill behind the house is an unlevened loaf of glacial flour dusted with plantlife. A congregation of thirsty potential predicts excess.


An ache, an axe, a throb warm in the darkness. A wing of breath. You could be unfastening buttons from a blouse of rain. Wet beads of delight. Milky pearls of gratitude. Miracles in another faith.