Line by line, word detonations—echolocation in versal darkness.
A small republic overrun in minutes by seasonal militia, unpredictable & without maps.
Runs reading aloud over the shoulder, crossing the creek—
prayer of the profane, prayer of what returns & returns despite progress & borders.
Beauty as refugee?
Shoring-up an openness
& standing at attention–
Our Poetry ’tis of Thee,
Sweet Land, Bright Clarity!
Composed, compose, there’s a grounding
in all of this.
spinning on a tilted cup, truck then rain, left to think & feel, neither of which carried the sun as close to the ground as the sunflower, spinning under think, which
carried, basket-like, whole populations disgruntled beside waterholes, wait then rain, neither of which opened the book like the first line could, dustclad, unbeholden,
anxious thinking that a final object, cup or sun or ground, would lift above and lines would follow spinning as if there were no population that couldn’t wait for the feel of it
finally, a place that seems inhabitable in that there’s less of a crowd, a pause that allows for echoes, a sense of having crossed borders
& borders are necessary, are they not, in that the leftbehind is what propels, & if wrong, then wrong but wrong looks and sounds so
clear that it can’t be wrong or all that wrong, it seems to have a head & tail & that’s more than most words can claim, having swum
so hard, having had the swim of a life, it’s greeted, all the same, by shore or claw or hook, so what’s wrong with wrong?