I hear the vigor and turn, in time, to see moonrise.
Recognition cinders so quickly into semblance.
Blackens into a blind-spot.
Flit of white-throated sparrow in the bottle-brush shrubs,
a spark my eyes involuntarily shy from.
How long to let perception fledge?
Walking home, I hear the ardor
as gravel perfects its shape under my feet.
Sudden, between two pines, a red flourish—
a fox’s tail, a first language.
In through our bedroom window comes a disruptive dawn.
So difficult to sustain night’s wordless equilibrium.
Naming anything, like stepping barefoot in wet sand up to my ankles.
Name after name, sinking me farther beneath quiet’s buoyancy.
House, this morning, is pale with the rush of what night siphoned off.
Objects, still emptied of resemblance, hum their chord-less cantos.
Bloodless, my knuckles knock on walls without echo, testing singularities.
Sun on the cutlery offers an ageless sheen.
Though it ages the silver relentlessly.
New, but still rudimentary tools to be gleaned from my over-used weaponry.
I attend closely to wildflowers to gain their confidence.
Such intimacies in the arrival of spring,
as though pollen were a form of telepathy.
Interpreting the interaction
between distance and shadow relentlessly.
Each thought, busy with the lie of its inevitability.
Astringent afternoon wind on the lake
my adequate face wiped raw.
Heron’s sudden dive, reddening the element.