I
Simply, driftwood shoulder
gained precedence, lacked
form. Of such
when all else
is overcast, bits
set apart
from what comes next,
body of straw and
meal laced of habit.
The grains of it as
tide makes three, makes
passage anew as
the angle dips and swerves
into such ease of flight
other borders hold to
along the lip of rock
only to fall once more
where once it held forth.
The heart is fire
and the traces
thereof.
II
It takes from sand
more than from
granite, a thatched home
where water is what one
stops for.
It shifts according to
reasons otherwise engaged, air too
warm for breath lizards
sunning along rails of glass
pertain to.
III
Stakes left rusting after
the wind dies and
the sky clears posture of
definition. Clearly bent, the
attention of photography
maintains it, scruffy as before
with ends splayed, dropped
in such alleys and
leavened with stark design.
So it follows an earlier sky, sudden
darkness less than the sudden
light across it as rain comes,
wind cutting things from the brush
to which they are tied.
IV
Grateful the end is near,
tract of rivers and elk
in passing so
green and flat as figure to ground,
animal to trees
to blue distance.
V
For the breezes are still,
fewer than before.
Set twigs in motion
for fear of what may come of amplitude
secure as
a room can be
dropped into such a country.
VI
Saturation in a corner of time
drains tar from the edges,
lifts distinct brushes
to the grey. Runners along which it
floats descend
beyond the rise of land where
we simply sit tempting the length
and source of
dust. So splayed, surface
cracks only control
transit and charge wires
carry. Elsewhere, partitions. And
gaps marking our return to forms
we otherwise only
invent.