We’re thrown into the momentary 
world, our fingers grip the dirt, we 
hold on. Each breath invents an 
image. Thumb-tacks fasten them like 
slips of paper to the heart. The heart 
is made of meat. Each image poses a 
question, or part of a question, or 
what could be interpreted as part of a 
question. You see, there’s no way of 
knowing. We’re here–– that’s all we 
know for certain. We’re here on the 
shore & we’re dying into the moment 
like a wave continuously breaking. 
Meanwhile, certain faces remind us of 
the sea, of sunlight pillaring that 
beautiful abyss.


Sometimes a truth rises slowly
from the dark place where it was kept,
like the sun from below the earth.

At first, there is only night,
a rustling of leaves in the wind.
But then a stillness falls, and into it

the sound of a bird like a small bell
and when the light swells up
out of the past, articulating

cloud and field, you sense it has been
arriving all along, for years maybe,
like an unfinished sentence.

Night will come again. Meanwhile, 
the earth is full of song.


The ground: look at it 
drinking us one-by-one.

See how the light abrades us
grain-by-grain, hourly,

till there is nothing left but 
this darkness, these shapes 

of absence, these powdery 
indentations in the past.

What is this life? Where are 
these shadows pointing?

And if I leave here, who 
will look after your glances?

Who will water your dreams 
with listening? Who will guide 

visitors to your collection
of snowflakes & silences, your 

complete skeleton of a leaf? 
If I stay, who will dig me out?